


Don't Tell My Dads I Broke Up With A Werewolf

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Don't Tell My Dads [3]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Crossover, M/M, many much language, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are over. Relationship-wise, that is. That doesn’t mean they’re out of each other’s lives. Because Castiel has a plan to get Dean out of Purgatory that involves Derek, and there’s a new guy in Beacon Hills who has a keen (and kinda creepy) interest in Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Nightmare. A New-Comer. A No-Good, Very-Bad Feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> Hurrah! New part!! I am so excited for this one, friends. :)
> 
> If you're wondering about the attempted rape/non-con, it won't come until very much later in the story--probably closer to the end, actually, and I will absolutely put up warnings in the previous chapter before so you all are aware. If you have any other questions about it, feel free to comment below or message me on Tumblr: saratatqt.
> 
> Thanks for all the support, guys!! I can't wait to get this part going. It definitely might be my favorite in the series, thus far.

_Anger bled to worry almost immediately, and Derek didn’t know if he could stand the sight of it any longer—staring into Stiles’s window and not being able to do anything. Freaking mountain ash everywhere; windows, doors, walls, around the teen’s freaking bed, for god’s sake, and that stupid kid was having a panic attack._

_Had he done this to himself? Did someone do this to him? God dammit, Stiles! What the hell was he thinking? Locking Derek out when he needed him most?_

_Derek slammed a fist into the window, and it shattered, glass falling inside the room. Didn’t even have the decency to scatter the mountain ash—not that it could. Derek didn’t think that supernatural shit worked like that._

_Stiles didn’t even flinch—more than likely didn’t register that the window had been broken at all. And with the window gone, Derek could hear the crying full-force, the wheezing, labored breaths. Fuck, Stiles was going to hyperventilate and end up dying with Derek only feet away._

_Rain pattered against the roof, soaking into Derek’s shirt and jeans and dripping into his eyes. He tried to blink them away but they just kept coming._

_"Stiles!" Derek yelled in frustration, banging against the wooden window frame. "Let me in!"_

_Stiles didn't move, and just as Derek was about to shout again, the ash line on the sill broke. The crackle in the air between the window and the room dissipated. Derek shoved his way into the room and gave a frustrated growl when he was halted by yet another mountain ash line—the one around Stiles’s bed._

_Before he had a chance to feel much more than frustration, however, the line suddenly broke, another crackle shifting over his skin and raising the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. Derek couldn’t get to Stiles fast enough, couldn’t help but run his hands along the teen’s arms and down his sides, remembering the feel of the younger man's body. It hurt not to have felt that for so long._

_“Stiles?”_

_All he wanted was to hold the kid and tell him how stupid he was for doing this and promise to fix whatever it was that made him and—_

_"Derek," Stiles muttered, his body shivering._

_"I’m here," Derek said, shifting on the bed and rubbing at the teen’s shoulder. "I’m here, Stiles."_

_Stiles turned to look at him, and Derek startled, releasing him quickly. The younger man's eyes were vacant and filmy, his skin a sickly dead color, and three gaping slash marks mawed the once smooth skin of his throat. They were ugly and red and bleeding._

_Stiles's eyebrows, suddenly, drew into a look of anger. "How could you?" the teen whispered, and Derek flinched like the words had been shouted._

_"Stiles—"_

_"How could you do this to me?" Stiles said more firmly._

_No, no, no. Derek would never.... He couldn't have.... “Stiles, I didn't—”_

_"You killed me, Derek."_

_"Stiles, please, I’m sor—"_

_"Why?" Stiles's bottom lip trembled, murky tears sliding from his dead eyes. “Why?”_

_Derek dipped his head and sobbed. “No. No, I...I didn't....”_

_“Derek, I loved you,” Stiles said, his voice trembling as he grasped Derek's arms and pulled himself up. “I loved you so much.”_

_Derek shook his head, closing his eyes tight and standing to leave. Stiles tightened his grip, holding him in place._

_“Derek.”_

_“No.”_

_“Derek.”_

_“Please....”_

_“Derek!”_

0 o 0 o 0

Derek woke with a start, legs kicking restlessly at the sheets trapping him in place as he glanced around wildly. 

“Derek!” someone called, and there was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly.

He lashed out, but the person jumped back quickly. His bedside lamp flickered on, and he blinked a few times, bringing his bedroom into focus.

Issac stood to his right, hand retreating from the lamp as a concerned look took his face. “You all right?” he asked warily, glancing down at Derek's hand.

The older man also looked at his hand, sighing as he found his claws bared. He retracted them and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

Issac shrugged a bare shoulder, clearing his throat and scratching awkwardly at the back of his head. “You were, uh...crying.”

Derek looked up, running a hand down his face and finding tears on his cheeks. He sniffed and wiped the hand on his sheets.

“And you....” Issac hesitated, his gaze dropping when Derek looked at him. “You said Stiles's name. A few times.”

The older man nodded knowingly. It wasn't the first time he'd had this nightmare. And it probably wouldn't be the last. The others generally ignored them, though. He wondered what was different tonight.

“We're worried,” Issac said quietly, motioning towards the door, where Erica and Boyd appeared, having been hiding in the hallway, “about you.”

Derek swallowed. “You don't need to worry about me,” he said unconvincingly. “I'm fine.”

“That's bullshit,” Erica said matter-of-factly, cocking a hip and placing a delicate hand on it.

A glance at the clock told the older man it was far to early for this conversation. “Go to bed. School starts in four hours.”

“I think one of us should stay here,” Issac suggested, but Derek was shaking his head before he'd finished talking.

“No.”

“Derek, we don't like that you'll be alone here during the day,” Boyd stated bluntly.

“No.”

Erica smirked and crossed her arms. “I'll take one for the team and drop out. Then I can be here all the time. I don't mind.”

Derek scowled. “Definitely not.”

Isaac hunched his shoulders as he looked to the other two betas with a question in his eyes.

“What?” Derek asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

Isaac shifted on his feet. “Can we...puppy pile?”

Derek groaned and fell back against his pillows. _Puppy pile_ —it was Stiles's word, one that Derek absolutely hated. But he hadn't been able to think of a better word for it. When he was younger, his family had just known when they needed to be together. It created a calm and a hush that they couldn't quite make on their own. Family was support and love, and Derek didn't have his family anymore—not the one he was born with, anyway.

Stiles had been family. And these silly teenagers were all he really had, besides Peter, and he highly doubted his uncle would want anything to do with something like this.

“Fine,” he ground out, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. “Just don't call it tha—oof!”

Erica hummed happily as she settled at his left, arm draped over his chest and cheek resting on his shoulder. Boyd lay beside her on his back, one hand curled over her hip as the length of his arm settled along her side. Isaac pursed his lips, hesitating before crawling into the bed and settling at Derek's right...where Stiles usually slept. The teen turned so his back was flush against Derek's side, the older man huffing before lifting his arm and shoving it under Isaac's head as a pillow before encircling the kid's torso.

Derek felt his heart rate slow, and a calm filled the room that hadn't been there since...well, since Stiles. Stiles was good at this sort of thing. He loved puppy piles more than Erica did—and that was a lot. He always had the right words to say. Isaac wouldn't have hesitated in asking Stiles for anything. And he was smart. Boyd usually went to Stiles for help with homework and advice about his relationship with Erica.

Who was Derek to them besides their alpha? If he cut them loose, who would they go to? Certainly not the man who made his pack think twice about whether or not to ask for a puppy pile, who brought out not love and admiration in the people close to him but hesitation and anxiousness, whose only good advice was which technique to use in a fight.

He wondered for a moment whether Stiles thought about these nights, whether he was cold without them. Derek hoped not—but a very small part of him, the part that ached for Stiles to come back, really, _really_ hoped so...

...because then maybe he would come home to them.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel hesitated before raising a hand and knocking on his son's bedroom door. It was strange, the quiet that had overtaken their home since...since....

The door opened, and Stiles stood in the frame, shadows under his eyes and cheeks red and raw from tears. "Dad?"

"Stiles," the angel said softly, placing a hand on the teen's shoulder.

The teen's eyebrows rose. "You okay, Dad? I said 'Come in' like three times." Stiles tried a smile, but it looked almost painful.

"I'm fine," Castiel said unconvincingly, releasing Stiles's shoulder and swallowing. This was how things were between them now—awkward and tense. Or had they always been this way? Had Dean really been the one gluing their broken family together? "How are you...um, handling things?"

Stiles narrowed puffy eyes and gave his father a pointed look, sniffling and rubbing at his reddened nose. "Fine."

"You and Derek?"

Stiles looked down and away. "I don't know." 

Castiel tilted his head. "Do you want to talk ab—"

"No."

"Are you—"

"Yes."

Castiel sighed. "Stiles—"

"I'm going to bed." Stiles stepped back and closed his door halfway. 

"It's still early," Castiel said, eyebrows drawing together. "We haven't eaten dinner yet."

Stiles shrugged. "First day of school tomorrow. I should really...get some sleep."

The angel took a breath, ready to argue. He should be a father, be the authority figure Stiles needed. Because he was the only one Stiles had. And Stiles was all he had. If he was honest with himself, it was possible they would be all they ever had. For the rest of Stiles's human life, anyway. And then he might run off to the Elysian Fields with his werewolf. Where would Castiel be then? He'd wanted a life with Dean. An afterlife with Dean. He wanted forever. How was he supposed to have that with Dean in Purgatory?

Castiel nodded solemnly, stepping away from the door as an indication that their conversation was over. "Goodnight, Stiles."

" 'Night, Dad."

"I love you."

Something on the teen's face gave way for a moment, and Castiel could see the anguish that his son kept hidden from him. From everyone. 

But it was quickly replaced with a wavering half-smile and a barely-there nod. "Yeah, love you, too."

And that was that.

0 o 0 o 0

Except it wasn't.

The alarm clock that sat on the nightstand at Dean's side of the bed flashed 2:54 PM over and over in a steady rhythm. They'd had a power outage only last week because of storms and high winds knocking power lines over. Castiel had yet to switch the clock back to its rightful time—he wasn't overly sure he knew how to anyway—but he knew it was more or less just after midnight. Because that was when Stiles would quietly make his way into the bedroom and slip under the covers on the other side of the bed, just as he had for the last few months.

The angel had stopped asking if he was all right after the first week when Stiles refused to answer with more than a huff and a shrug, allowing silence to coat the room until the teen slipped into an uneasy sleep and curled further into the space left behind by Dean. 

As Stiles took a shallow breath, however, Castiel could sense tonight would be different. “Dad?”

“Yes, Stiles?”

“I'm...sorry.”

Castiel sat up, any pretense of falling asleep long gone. “You have nothing to apologize for, Stiles.”

Stiles crossed the room and climbed into the bed under the covers, settling as far into them as he could. He was shaking, swallowing choked sobs as he held in the need to scream. Castiel lay back down and put a hesitant hand on his son's trembling shoulder. 

“Stiles?”

“I said...I said something to P-Pop. Before we...left Purgatory.” Stiles sniffled and buried his face in the sheets, his shaking intensifying.

Castiel's hand slid around to Stiles's back, rubbing soothing circles. “I'm sure whatever it was, he—”

“I told him I hate him,” the teen blurted, and Castiel's hand stopped. 

“You....”

“I told him I wished he'd let me die w-with my real parents and...then I told him I hate him. And then we were back, and I...I couldn't tell him....”

The crying started. It went on even as Castiel wrapped his arms around the teen and whispered assurances into his ear about how Dean knew he hadn't meant the words and how Purgatory changed people and as many excuses as he could think to tell the young man without sounding like he was lying for his benefit. And it only dwindled when the angel finally had to make the young man fall asleep with two fingers pressed gently to his forehead. 

Castiel sighed, his heart heavy as he cradled Stiles to him. “Don't dream, Stiles,” he whispered into the sleeping teen's ear, his tears sliding down his face to mingle with the tears on his son's face. “Please, please don't dream.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stepping into Chemistry, Stiles breathed a sigh of relief—something he had never done in the entirety of his high school career. Even with Harris as his Chemistry teacher again this year, it was still bound to be better than the day he had been having. 

His dad had cooked him breakfast. No, scratch that, his dad had cooked him a freaking _feast_. If it was labeled as a breakfast food, it had been sitting on their dining room table. His only thought in the shower had been whether he'd wanted pancakes or waffles, but screw that because the option had no longer been whether he'd wanted one or the other but how much freaking homemade syrup he wanted drizzled over his Leaning Waffle-Pancake Tower of Pisa. His dad had continuously asked him if he was _absolutely_ sure he wanted to go to school or give it another day or week or, hell, why not take the year off? Who needed school? He was ahead, right? He could totally skip a grade or try online courses. Why not home-schooling? Uncle Sammy would be more than happy to help, he was sure.

He'd barely escaped without throwing up.

Arriving at school had been no easier. Scott and Allison were waiting for him at the front doors, flanking him all the way to his locker and his first class, where Boyd promptly nodded to the two, who left to their own classes, and seated himself and Stiles beside each other. After class, he'd been walked none-too-subtly to second period, where Lydia stood, proper and prim as ever. The day had continued like that (because Stiles was slowly realizing his friends had strategically arranged their schedules so that at least one of them was in each and every one of his classes) until lunch rolled around, where he was swarmed with questions about whether that was all he was eating and whether he wanted this person's apple or that person's bread roll or a lapdance (that was Erica).

And Stiles just.

Couldn't. 

Take it.

Anymore.

So when chemistry— _blessed chemistry_ —showed no signs of having any of his friends whatsoever, he took an empty seat and dropped his head to the smooth work table with a small groan of exhaustion. Just this class and lacrosse practice after school, then he could go home, fall into bed, and forget everything until tomorrow.

“Mr. Winchester, kindly show some restraint.” Mr. Harris's voice cut through the calm he had been creating in his mind. “We have a new student, and we don't need you giving him a bad impression of our school.”

“You know,” Stiles said, sitting up, “all due respect, but I don't think our school needs all that much help giving people a bad impression.”

Mr. Harris scowled and narrowed his eyes at the teen. “Class, this is....” He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “...Karsen Reynolds. Mr. Reynolds, you can take a seat beside Mr. Winchester. Maybe you'll be a better influence on him than...others.”

Stiles tried to look offended, but it was difficult with the way the new guy was looking at him. He was smiling—not just one of those polite smiles people put on when meeting someone new. It caught Stiles off-guard because it was...pretty damn creepy.

“Hey,” the teen said, setting his bag on the ground and taking a seat as Mr. Harris began passing out syllabi for the year, “I'm Karsen.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said dumbly, staring at the hand the other teen was holding out before shaking himself and remembering to take it. “Uh, Stiles. I'm...Stiles.”

Karsen nodded, waiting a beat before glancing down at their hands. 

“Oh,” Stiles said, releasing the hand in his own as he realized he still had a hold on it. “Sorry, I just...We don't get many new students. And you....” Stiles couldn't finish his thought. He was swept up in Karsen's appearance—smooth, olive-toned skin, sun-streaked brown hair, bright, bright, bright green eyes, thin and tall and holymothermaryofjesus an ass that would put anyone to shame.

“And me?” Karsen questioned, a gentle accent in his words that Stiles couldn't quite place.

“You,” Stiles repeated, clearing his throat and taking the syllabus that was handed to him. “You're definitely not from around here.”

Karsen chuckled, and Stiles's heart skipped a beat. Shit, what the hell? That was...That didn't feel right. Yeah, Stiles was kinda out of practice with the whole flirting thing since having been in a relationship for the last year (and out of one for the past three months), but he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to feel like... _that_. Something in his chest tightened, and he swallowed hard to clear his throat. Was he having a panic attack? 

“No, I'm not,” the teen said, shifting on the stool and glancing briefly at the syllabus handed to him before placing it on the table. He added nothing more, and Stiles turned back to the front of the classroom, ignoring Mr. Harris's droning tone and trying to watch the other student out of the corner of his eye.

Everything about him screamed _hipster_ —from the baggy, off-white t-shirt with a breast pocket to the black-and-red studded belt and matching thick-rimmed glasses. But something other than that was off about him. Something dark and cold slithered into the pit of Stiles's stomach and coiled around his insides, squeezing until it was just this side of bearable.

“Mr. Winchester.”

Stiles jumped, and the class gave a round of scattered laughter. “Yeah, Mr. Harris?”

“Please put that poor pencil down and read the mission statement on the syllabus out loud. I have a feeling you missed it.”

Stiles looked down at the pencil in his hand—when the hell had he grabbed that?—which had been chewed within an inch of its life, the eraser hanging by a mere shred of rubber.

Bad habit, bad habit, _bad habit._

He glanced at Karsen, finding an amused half-smile on the teen's face. “Sure thing, Mr. Harris.”

0 o 0 o 0

“Hey, any of you guys met that new kid, Karsen Reynolds?” Stiles asked as casually as he could muster, which wasn't as casual as he wished considering the strange looks he had gotten since gearing up. He and the others were gathered around a small section of the bleachers, lacrosse practice over with and tired teammates making their way off the field and towards the locker room.

Scott narrowed his eyes, watching him for a moment before shaking his head. “No. We got a new guy at school?”

“You probably wouldn't have noticed,” Lydia stated matter-of-factly, checking her lipstick in her compact mirror. “He's in all the AP classes.”

“Except Chemistry,” Stiles said, and everyone looked at him. “I mean, obviously, because he's in my Chem class, and I'm not taking AP Chem, so....”

“There is no AP Chem class this year,” Lydia said in disappointment, closing her compact and shoving it in her purse. “Shame. I would have liked the college credits.”

“Is he hot?” Erica asked, though her tone suggested she wasn't really interested in the answer. She was leaning back on her elbows, head thrown back as she attempted to catch the last of the day's warmth on her skin.

Lydia cocked her head to one side, making a show of thinking. “Yeah, I guess he's all right. If you're into the whole hipster thing, that is.”

Erica sat up and leaned forward to look at her around Allison, who was seated between them. “Oh, I am so into the whole hipster thing.”

Boyd grunted disapprovingly but said nothing, picking up his equipment and heading off the field. Erica smirked and slid from her seat, bounding after him and catching his arm as she caught up and walked with him towards the school.

“You have chemistry with him?” Scott asked, and it took Stiles a moment to register that the question was directed at him.

“Uh, yeah. Harris made him my lab partner.”

“Are you okay with that?” Isaac asked, stepping forward protectively. The message in his body language was clear— _I will fuck him up if you ask me to_. “Did you get a bad vibe off him, or something?”

“No, no,” Stiles assuaged, twisting the lacrosse stick in his hand a couple times. “I just...He felt....” He sighed in frustration. There was a word for it. For him—this Karsen guy. “Unclear, I guess? I didn't feel anything bad, just...blank. Like maybe he's hiding something.”

“You could ask Harris to give you a different lab partner, if it bugs you,” Allison suggested.

“I don't think you should be so hasty,” Lydia said. “He's a good-looking guy, Stiles. Get to know him. Who knows? He might be good for you right now.”

“Good for me?” Stiles asked, heat rising to his cheeks as he became flustered. “He's not...How do you...You don't even....”

“Honey,” Lydia interrupted, standing and giving him a look that only the red-headed queen of Beacon Hills could give, “I know.” She grabbed Allison's hand and pulled her from the stands, walking towards the parking lot. 

“See you at my place?” Allison called back with a wave, a hopeful smile on her face. 

Scott returned both gestures. “Yeah! I'll be by in a while!”

The goofy grin lasted him all the way to the locker room.

0 o 0 o 0

Isaac and Stiles were the last to leave, chatting idly about classes and homework already given and music they'd been listening to over the summer. It was comfortable and familiar and _painful_ all at once.

“You need a ride?” Stiles asked, hoping for just a little bit longer with his friend...well, hopefully. What were they now that Derek and he were broken up? Now that the pups had sided with Derek (not that Stiles had expected them to leave the older man—they were Derek's betas; what would Stiles do with a bunch of teenage werewolves?), he wasn't sure. They still seemed to be friends. But maybe that was Derek's doing.

“No, I have a ride,” Isaac said just as Derek's Camaro came to a screeching halt behind Stiles's jeep. For a moment, Stiles panicked. Had Derek really come to the school? He thought they'd had an understanding, that he wasn't going to be around anymore....

_0 o 3 Months Earlier o 0_

_It had been a conversation over the phone._

_“I can't see you anymore.”_

_“Stiles—”_

_“It just hurts, Derek.”_

_“Then why are you doing this? Why did you break up with me?”_

_“I...I don't know. Something feels...wrong.”_

_“Is it me?”_

_“...I know you're having them check on me. Isaac and Boyd and Erica. I see them outside my house sometimes. You need to tell them to stop.”_

_“I'm worried.”_

_“Me too.”_

_“Stiles...did something happen? In Purgatory?”_

_“Derek, please, just...I can't do this if you won't leave me alone.”_

_“Why does it have to be alone? Why do you have to do everything alone?”_

_“...I don't want to see you. I don't want you to call. I need you to stay away from me.”_

_“Stiles, I love—”_

_“Bye.”_

0 o Present Day o 0

The car window rolled down, and Erica peered out from the driver's seat. Stiles's chest un-tightened just a fraction. 

“He misses you,” Isaac said quietly, and Stiles couldn't bear to look him in the eye. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“He has nightmares,” Isaac continued, taking a breath and trying to get the words out as quickly as possible. “He doesn't say anything, but we know they're about you. We don't—” 

“Isaac,” Stiles interrupted, keys jingling in his hand as he scuffed his shoe against the gravel, “Derek's not really my problem anymore.” He met Isaac's gaze, and the hurt look he found there almost had him retracting the words immediately. Shit, he was no better than Isaac's abusive fuck of a father, saying something like that. Because saying Derek wasn't his problem was like saying that Isaac and Boyd and Erica weren't his problem. They were a pack and a family, and anything said against one was said against the rest of them.

Stiles would know. He used to be apart of that family.

“I have to go,” Stiles said, his voice husky. He looked away again, finding Erica and Boyd solemnly watching them. “I'll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said in a near whisper, clearing his throat and stepping backwards towards the Camaro. “You, uh, gonna be okay to get home?”

“Sure,” Stiles replied, a smile stretching his lips uncomfortably. He wasn't used to that feeling so much these days. He raised a hand, waving them off as Isaac got into the car and they sped away.

“Hey,” a voice said behind him, and Stiles startled, dropping his keys and whipping around. 

“Karsen,” he squeaked, clearing his throat and swallowing hard. “Uh, hi.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” the teen said, his mouth twisted into a smirk. 

That feeling settled in the pit of Stiles's abdomen again...Emptiness. He didn't like it. “No problem. You, uh, waiting for someone?”

“My brother,” Karsen confirmed, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning back onto his heels. “Looks like he forgot to pick me up.”

“Oh.” Shit. Now he had to offer. Because it was polite. And he wouldn't feel right leaving someone alone at the school, especially someone so new. “I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

_Please say no._

_Please say no._

_Please say no._

“Thanks, but he just texted me.” Karsen waved his phone, the thin silver charm hanging from it clinking as he did. “He should be here soon.”

“Good,” Stiles nodded, offering a brief smile before stooping to grab his keys. Karsen stepped closer, and Stiles was trapped between him and his jeep. 

“Would you mind waiting with me? This place kind of gives me the creeps when there's no one here.”

Stiles stood, using his jeep to brace himself so he wouldn't fall. “Uh, sure. I know what you mean. Beacon Hills gets pretty quiet at night.”

“It's probably the wolves,” Karsen said, and Stiles dropped his keys again.

“Wh-What? Wolves? What makes you...Uh, I mean, what do you mean?” he stammered, forcing a laugh that sounded a little hysterical.

Karsen bent down and retrieved the keys, holding them out to Stiles. “I just mean with the woods and everything. There's bound to be wolves around, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, relief in his tone. He grabbed the keys in Karsen's hand, but the other teen didn't let go, instead stepping closer into Stiles's personal, personal, _personal_ bubble. 

“I heard there are a lot of animal attacks,” he said quietly, and Stiles squirmed. “Is that true?”

“I, uh—”

Suddenly, a car horn honked, and both Stiles and Karsen turned to find a bright yellow Chevy Cavalier idling near them. 

“Guess that's your ride,” Stiles said quickly, snatching his keys from Karsen's hand while he was distracted. 

“Yeah,” Karsen said unhappily, glaring at the tinted windows, “guess so.” He made no move to leave, however, so Stiles quickly slid along the door of his jeep until he was out from between the teen and his car. 

“See you tomorrow, then,” he said, fumbling with his keys for a moment before finding the right one and jamming it into the door lock. 

“Tomorrow,” Karsen agreed, walking to the Cavalier and getting in on the passenger side. Stiles saw his mouth move with heated words through the windshield before the car drove off, and his shoulders drooped. 

“Holy shit,” he cursed, opening the jeep's door roughly and jumping inside. He waited a few moments before starting the jeep, not wanting to have to follow the yellow car all the way to his street. 

And could he possibly mention that _that was creepy as fuck_? Stiles didn't remember seeing any _for sale_ signs on their street. Like, ever. Everyone on his street had lived there forever—some for generations—and no one had mentioned moving anytime soon.

So creepy guy with creepy weirdness had just so happened to move into town onto _Stiles's street_? Was he being paranoid?

No, the world was full of weirdness. And ignoring your gut got you killed. 

Or so his pop said...

...would have said.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat and threw the jeep into reverse. 

0 o 0 o 0

The Cavalier wasn't just _on his street_. The Reynolds, apparently, lived only two houses away. Hadn't the Carsons lived there? Stiles definitely hadn't heard anything about them moving. Sure, they mowed their lawn at seven in the morning on Saturdays and their dogs barked at all hours of the night, but Stiles had liked Mrs. Carson's chocolate chip cookies, and Mr. Carson was funny at Bar-B-Ques. 

So what the hell?

Stiles jumped out of his jeep and onto his driveway, grabbing his backpack and stuffing his keys into his pocket. His fingers grazed the plastic casing of his phone, and he pulled it out, staring at it a moment before sighing and making a decision he was sure to regret.

Broken up or not, Derek had to know if something weird was going on in town. He typed in Derek's number—the number that was no longer preset in his contacts—and hit send, making his way up the pathway to the porch. There was a shrill ringing on the other end of the line as he twisted the doorknob and stepped into the entryway of his house. 

And from the living room came the tinny sound of _My Sharona_ playing on a cellphone speaker—the very song Stiles had set as his ringtone on....

He turned the corner, phone still against his ear as he stared into the living room. His Dad sat in the easy chair—pop's favorite chair—that faced the couch...the couch that now seated Derek Freaking Hale. 

“What the fuck?!”


	2. A Plan. A Legend. A Pack Meeting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek hadn't wanted to admit it. Well, he had on some very small level. Because if there was something wrong with Stiles, then there was a reason they weren't together. But if there was something wrong with Stiles, then...there was something wrong with Stiles, and Derek was an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. UGH. Ugh. I just...I have no excuses. Except perhaps to say that I've been on an extended, unintended writing hiatus. And I sincerely apologize. Thank you to all who have stuck with my extreme laziness and continued to message me and comment! I really do have high hopes that this series will have an actual ending. Eventually. Again, so sorry! I promise to get my ass in gear this year. It's one of my new years resolutions. For realsies! Enjoy, okay?

_(Recap from the last chapter:) Stiles jumped out of his jeep and onto his driveway, grabbing his backpack and stuffing his keys into his pocket. His fingers grazed the plastic casing of his phone, and he pulled it out, staring at it a moment before sighing and making a decision he was sure to regret._

_Broken up or not, Derek had to know if something weird was going on in town. He typed in Derek's number—the number that was no longer preset in his contacts—and hit send, making his way up the pathway to the porch. There was a shrill ringing on the other end of the line as he twisted the doorknob and stepped into the entryway of his house._

_And from the living room came the tinny sound of My Sharona playing on a cellphone speaker—the very song Stiles had set as his ringtone on...._

_He turned the corner, phone still against his ear as he stared into the living room. His Dad sat in the easy chair—pop's favorite chair—that faced the couch...the couch that now seated Derek Freaking Hale._

_“What the fuck?!”_

(And now...)

“Stiles,” his father said disapprovingly, “language. We have a guest.”

“Dad, I don't think my ex counts as a guest,” Stiles said hotly, regretting the words somewhat as Derek looked down towards the coffee table.

“He is _my_ guest,” Castiel said, standing and frowning at the teen, “and you will be civil.” The angel picked up the empty glass on the coffee table and started towards the kitchen. “I'll get you more tea, Derek.”

Stiles's eyebrows drew together. “You don't drink tea,” he hissed so that his father wouldn't hear. 

Derek shrugged and said nothing. He looked tired, pale. There were dark circles under his eyes. Stiles couldn't remember a time when he looked so bad...other than when he'd been dead. Maybe after his sister's death, but he had been angry then, and rage had hidden much of his grief.

There wasn't much to be angry about now.

Derek looked back at him, frowning and sitting forward. “You look...Stiles, are you all right?” He glanced down at his phone. “You were calling me.”

Stiles took a breath, ready to tell the man off. Derek knew Stiles didn't want him around.

So what the hell was he doing here?

The young man swallowed, unable to pour his anger out over the worried look Derek was giving him. “Um...I was trying to call Deaton. I accidentally hit your contact number.”

Derek nodded, shoulders sagging. “Anything I can help with?”

Stiles paused, ready to tell Derek about the creeper at his school—two doors down—but Castiel chose that moment to return, placing the glass on the coffee table and seating himself in the armchair again. 

“Do you have homework, Stiles?”

Stiles sighed and nodded. “Uh, yeah. A little.”

“Your uncles will be here soon. You should get ready for dinner.”

The teen started towards the staircase, furrowing his eyebrows when the doorbell sounded. It couldn't be his uncles—they would have just walked in (or, if Uncle Gabe was in charge of getting them there, appeared right in the middle of the living room). Stiles had a gut-twisting feeling he already knew who it might be, and Derek stiffened on the couch as he, undoubtedly, heard the teen's heart begin to race.

“Stiles?” his father asked, and the young man jumped, turning to the living room and realizing he'd been staring at the front door instead of answering it.

“Yeah, got it,” he said, heading to the door and holding his breath as he turned the knob. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek didn't like the look on Stiles's face as he opened the door. There was definitely something going on, and why the teen wasn't talking about it was a little out of the ordinary. Sure, they weren't together anymore, but last time Derek checked he still had functioning hearing. Listening wasn't against any rules Stiles had laid down when they'd broken up.

Though Derek had been more than a little surprised when Castiel had shown up at his apartment earlier that morning....

_0 o Earlier That Morning o 0_

_“Mr. Winchester?” Derek asked as he slid open the loft door to find possibly the last person—other than Stiles, of course—he expected to be there. “Uh...Can I help you with something?”_

_“Derek,” Castiel said somberly, wide blue eyes staring the man down intensely. “I was hoping we could talk.”_

_Derek swallowed hard, head bobbing as he stepped aside and allowed the man through the doorway. Shit. Was he in trouble? Was_ Stiles _in trouble? Had something happened at school? Damn it, he told those idiots to keep an eye on him...._

_“Stiles is...fine,” the older man said, his gaze sweeping the loft quickly as he stopped just inside._

_Derek closed the door. “You seem a little uncertain about that.”_

_“He misses you.”_

_“...I miss him, too.”_

_“There is something different about him, though,” Castiel explained, turning and facing Derek with a perplexed look. “Since his return from Purgatory, I have found it difficult to read him.”_

_“Read him?” Derek asked._

_Castiel struggled for a moment to find the right words. “You can feel him, correct?”_

_The young man shifted uncomfortably. “In a sense. It's complicated.”_

_“But you understand what I mean when I say that he's changed. That something is not quite right.”_

_Derek hadn't wanted to admit it. Well, he had on some very small level. Because if there was something wrong with Stiles, then there was a reason they weren't together. But if there was something wrong with Stiles, then...there was something_ wrong _with_ Stiles _, and Derek was an idiot for not seeing it sooner._

_He sighed and nodded, giving in to the thought. Stiles was not the same._

_Castiel nodded as well. “I see.”_

_Derek's gut twisted. “What are you going to do about it?”_

_The angel was quiet for a long moment. “I would like you to come over to our home. Today, if possible.” Those eyes found Derek's, and the werewolf had to resist the urge to flinch or shiver. Or both. “It will be more convenient if I only have to explain this once.”_

_“Are you telling Stiles?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Sam? And Gabriel?”_

_“Of course.”_

_Derek nodded. “This is about your husband.”_

_Castiel's face stayed stoic. “Yes.”_

_“You want to get him out.”_

_“He's been in Purgatory for—”_

_“And you think I can help,” Derek interrupted, swallowing loudly. “You want me to go to Purgatory.”_

_Castiel was quiet._

_“With who?”_

_“Me.”_

_“Just you?”_

_“You think we need more people?”_

_“I think the last time you sent a hunter, a fully-capable angel, and my—Stiles into Purgatory, they barely made it out, and your husband had to stay behind.”_

_Derek regretted the words immediately. The look on Castiel's face still didn't change, but his eyes shimmered, and when he spoke again, his voice was huskier than normal._

_“I'm trying to fix this. I'm...trying to bring my family back together. To save my son.”_

_“...At what cost?”_

0 o Present o 0

Mr. Winchester hadn't been able to answer that question. And Derek couldn't let the opportunity slip by to check on Stiles. He had a solid excuse for being there, after all. A Stiles-less excuse that in no way breached their verbal contract...He was pretty sure.

Castiel was speaking again, but Derek could hardly concentrate when the teen's heart was racing like that. Who was at the door? Derek couldn't pick anything up—no sounds, no smells. It was...disconcerting.

And then Stiles appeared around the entryway with a young man in tow. 

“Dad,” he said, swallowing and taking a shallow breath, “this is Karsen Reynolds. He and his family just moved into the neighborhood.”

Castiel stood, a soft smile on his face as he stepped forward and offered a hand. “Karsen, it's very nice to meet you.”

“You, too, Mr. Winchester,” Karsen said, gaze flitting towards Derek for only a moment. 

His eyes were unsettling. And, still, there was no scent. The hair on the back of Derek's neck stood on end, his hackles rising. He shared a brief look with Stiles, who looked more than a little uncomfortable. Was it because he liked this kid? Had he found someone to replace Derek already?

Karsen held out a saran-wrapped plate. “My mother made cookies. She sent me over to offer some.”

“That's very kind, thank you,” Castiel said, taking the plate. “I thought new-comers were supposed to _receive_ welcome gifts, not give them.”

“It's more of a business tactic, really,” Karsen said sheepishly, hands finding his jacket pockets. “My mother is a baker. She and my father bought a small shop downtown. I think it used to be _Manny's_?” 

Stiles shifted, and Derek took notice of the drawn eyebrows, the pull at the corners of his lips. 

“Anyway,” Karsen continued, “I was telling her about Stiles.” He gave the teen a grin, and Stiles returned it, somewhat forced. “He was really nice today, which was a relief. I've been a little nervous, starting in a new place, a new school.”

“I'm glad,” Castiel replied, “and I'm sure you'll fit in just fine in Beacon Hills. It's a wonderful town.”

“Thank you,” the young man said. “Well, I'd better get back. Lots of cookies to hand out.” His arm grazed Stiles's, and it took all Derek had not to jump from his seat when Stiles flinched at the contact. “I'll see you at school, Stiles!”

“Yeah, see ya,” Stiles said with a wave.

Derek scowled at Karsen's back as he left. This was a problem.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles didn't know if the twisting feeling in his gut was because of Derek or Karsen. Knowing his luck, it was probably both. But he was sure that if his dad hadn't been there, Derek would have been tearing into Karsen's throat without hesitation. That is if the murderous look he'd given him on his way out was any indication. He had to let Derek know that there wasn't anything between them, that the kid was creepy as hell, and that even if Stiles found Karsen _romantically_ attractive, there was just no way he was ready for anything yet. 

“I think I'm...gonna go to bed,” Stiles said flatly, swallowing hard as Derek's attention reverted back to him.

“Stiles, you just got home,” his dad said, eyebrows furrowed as he set the plate in his hands down and stepped towards him. 

“I know, I'm...I'm not feeling well,” Stiles said, releasing a breath and allowing his father to press the back of his hand to his forehead. 

Castiel's lips pursed, and he sighed. “You should stay home from school tomorrow.”

“No, Dad, I'm—” 

“It was too soon. You've been—” 

Stiles backed out of his father's grasp. “I'll be fine. I just need some sleep.” Castiel still did not look convinced. “It's the first day, Dad. I'm just...tired. That's all.”

Castiel stared at him longer than Stiles thought necessary, making the young man squirm, before nodding. “I'll save you some dinner if you get hungry.” 

Stiles nodded and made his escape, forgetting for just a moment that Derek was there until he was closing the door to his bedroom. He sighed and leaned against the door, staring across the room at his bed longingly. 

The air around him sizzled, the hairs on his arms standing on end, and then his uncles' voices were coming through the vent in the corner of his room.

He fell onto his bed, letting his limbs melt into the comforter. He could remember a time when he liked school, when he'd be diving head first into a textbook instead of his bed. He could also remember a lot of distractions from said textbooks...welcome distractions from a certain someone. Who he wasn't supposed to be thinking about. But was thinking about all the time. Like, a lot. 

Like _a lot_ , a lot. 

But they were broken up. _Stiles_ had broken them up. Out of the blue. After bringing Derek back from Purgatory, from family that he'd been so happy with, from an afterlife that was, essentially, as close to heaven as someone like Derek could get. 

Stiles flipped onto his back and covered his face. God, what had he been thinking? What the hell was wrong with him? He should talk to Derek. 

Except he couldn't. Because every time he thought about it, his gut clenched, his brain screamed _Bad idea!_ He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why, though. Something inside him knew that talking to Derek would make things better, would make him realize what he'd done was insane. And something else was keeping him from saying anything at all, choking the words he so desperately wanted to say.

He turned onto his side and curled into himself as the vent released tinny voices from downstairs. His father's deep monotone saying there was something he had been thinking about for a while that needed to be discussed. His Uncle Gabe's humor-laced voice saying it had better be good because he and Sam had had an epic date night planned. Uncle Sammy sighing and asking what Castiel wanted to tell them. Derek brooding.

Okay, that was a bit of a stretch. But Stiles swore up and down the werewolf's brooding was audible if you knew what to listen for. 

“I want to get Dean back.”

Stiles swallowed. He'd known his father had been quieter than usual, plotting something behind that stoic gaze of his. There was no way he was going to just leave Pop in Purgatory. But how did they have a choice? They had no one willing to take his place (besides Dad, which really just created another problem). They had no way to get him home without repeating the misery that had been the last few months. 

“We all want Dean back,” Uncle Sammy said, voice tinged with a desperate exhaustion, like they'd talked about it before. 

“And what have you done to show it?” Castiel snapped, an anger creeping into his tone that Stiles had rarely been privy to. “You say you want him back, but that's _all_ you do.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “I have a plan.”

“You can't stay in Purgatory for him,” Uncle Gabe chimed in warningly. “Stiles needs both of his fathers.”

Stiles's heart ached at the words. He did need them both. Desperately. 

“He does,” his father said, “and I have a way to get him out of Purgatory without anyone having to stay.”

“How?” Uncle Sammy asked, Stiles sitting up on his bed and turning to the vent with the same question on the tip of his tongue. 

A beat of quiet before his father answered with, “Derek.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek bristled at the attention he was receiving from Stiles's uncles. 

“Derek?” Sam asked skeptically, but Gabriel's face was already twisting into thoughtful hope. 

“You think that will work?” the angel asked, looking Derek up and down as if sizing him up.

“He's an alpha,” Castiel said matter-of-factly. “In theory—” 

“Theory?” Sam demanded, hands shifting to his hips as he took a step towards them both. “What the hell aren't you telling me?” His gaze shifting between Castiel and Gabriel. “Because if this plan is based on _theory_ , I can say from experience that plans like that rarely go the way you think they will.”

“Supernatural creatures that haven't died have a different purpose in Purgatory,” Gabriel explained.

“Are there creatures in Purgatory that _haven't_ died to get there?” Sam asked, the scholar in him surfacing despite the importance of the conversation.

“There are,” Castiel confirmed. “And with Derek's help we would be able to seek one out and return without having to leave someone in Dean's place.”

“How?” Sam asked. “What's so special about these alphas?”

Castiel and Gabriel exchanged a glance.

“They don't know,” Derek said, swallowing hard as the attention turned back towards him. “No one does. It's legend. Folklore that my parents told us before bed when we were children. They may not even exist.”

“But if they do,” Castiel stated quickly to stave off any disbelief in Sam's mind, “we could get Dean out.”

Sam's eyebrows knit together. “If they _are_ real...I assume they wouldn't do this out of the _kindness of their hearts_.”

“No,” Derek said, shifting on the sofa as an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, “they won't. They always ask for something.”

“Like what?” Gabriel said. 

Damn it. So Derek was the only one with knowledge of these things. That's why Castiel had brought him there. Well, part of the reason. The other part was dragging him back into the hell that few had ever actually escaped from and sniffing out an imaginary creature that could send them all back with a few magic words and a handful of glitter.

Well, maybe not glitter. But you never know.

“It's not something you can bring,” Derek replied. “It's something you have to leave behind.”

“See? Someone is going to have to stay,” Sam argued, but Derek shook his head. 

“Nothing physical. It's...The legend says it's something you can't see. Something in your head. A memory, or a name.”

“That doesn't seem so bad,” Gabriel said with a shrug. 

Derek clenched a fist at his side. “Can you imagine looking at Sam and not remembering who he is? Not remembering your life together?” Gabriel shared an uneasy look with his lover. “That's what they ask for. That's what they demand as payment. They're dangerous, tricky.”

“I thought you said they were just stories,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Derek replied. “But so are werewolves.”

A quiet blanketed the room until Castiel sat forward in his chair. “Who does the payment come from if there is more than one person?”

“Every person passing from Purgatory to the living world must pay something,” Derek explained.

“And who exactly is going on this rescue-mission-field-trip?” Gabriel asked, the corners of his mouth drawn down as if he already knew the answer.

“I am,” Castiel said quietly, his calm demeanor unsettling considering what the words implied.

“No,” Sam argued. 

“Sam—” 

“Absolutely not, Cas.” Sam stood, looming over the fallen angel with a determined look on his face. “What if something happens to you? You're seriously going to leave Stiles without his parents?”

“If something should happen, he will still have you,” Castiel said, looking between Sam and Gabriel. “He won't be alone.”

“He needs a _father_ ,” Sam countered. “Whether it's one or two, he needs a father, not his uncles. I'm talking from experience here, Cas. Parents are important.”

Castiel searched Sam's face for a moment before looking down at his clasped hands. 

“I'll go,” Gabriel stated. 

“You went last time,” Sam said. 

“This isn't Chuck-E-Cheese, Sammy. It isn't about who hasn't had a chance to go yet. If you're telling Cas he can't go, then the only other logical option is me.”

Sam crossed his arms and squared his shoulders. “I can go.”

Gabriel stood. “No.”

“I can handle Purgatory. I've been there, too,” the hunter argued, catching Derek's eye and faltering for a moment. “Wait, did...did Cas ask you to go, Derek?”

Derek's spine stiffened. “Yes, he asked me.”

Gabriel's eyebrows drew together. “But you haven't said yes.”

The werewolf took a deep breath and glanced at Castiel. “I haven't...given him an answer yet.”

Both Stiles's uncles whirled on Castiel. 

“Cas, are you kidding?”

“He hasn't said yes?”

“How can you make all these plans—”

“He has a say in whether or not he—” 

“I want to talk to Stiles,” Derek interrupted, the room going quiet. Again. There seemed to be a lot of quiet in between the loud at the Winchesters'. And both—the quiet and the loud—were generally pretty intense. “I...I want to ask him if it's all right.”

The three looked at each other like they hadn't even considered it, which made Derek's jaw clench. They hadn't thought about what Stiles wanted; they'd just assumed. Stiles was barely even a factor in any of their plans. Because to them he was still just a kid.

Derek didn't blame them—entirely. He could see why they wanted to keep Stiles sheltered. After the life they'd led, after the things they'd seen, after growing up with monsters under every bed and ghouls hiding in every closet, Derek understood why they wanted Stiles as far from these things as possible. But keeping him in the dark wasn't what was going to keep Stiles from pain. 

“Okay,” Castiel agreed, the look on his face warm and thankful. 

Derek swallowed and stood, nodding to Sam and Gabriel before heading towards the stairs.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles was halfway to his bedroom door before the knock on it even sounded, opening it just as Derek was softly calling his name. 

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat of hoarseness.

“Hi,” Derek replied, awkwardly shifting outside the door. “Can we talk?”

Stiles nodded, not entirely sure if he actually wanted to but stepping aside to let Derek into the room. He closed the door and turned, leaning back against it as Derek took careful, nonchalant steps towards the middle of the room. He saw the werewolf eye the bed and quickly look away, hands delving into his jeans pockets. 

“You got new sheets,” Derek said bluntly, gaze firmly planted on his shoes.

“Yeah, well, the old ones smelled like you, so...” Stiles closed his eyes and released a frustrated breath. How could he have said that out loud? Seriously? Did he have no filter?

No, no he didn't. Duh. But, really, he thought he would be better at this whole break-up thing, especially when confronted with his ex.

“Sorry,” he whispered, having to clear his throat again. “I didn't mean....”

“It's fine,” Derek said. Stiles didn't believe it. “I, uh, I guess I should just assume you know why I'm up here.”

Stiles couldn't help the flit of his gaze towards the vent. It was a handy little thing, especially when eavesdropping—maybe _just_ for eavesdropping—and one day his parents were going to find out about it and probably rip the damn thing up so he couldn't listen in on anymore of their conversations. Derek followed his gaze, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward, as if he were proud of the younger man.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, shoulders drawn so tightly he was practically trembling. 

“So I guess the only question is—” 

“I don't want you to go,” the younger man said so quickly that he barely understood the words himself. “I don't want you to do this.”

Derek's face went blank, and he stood very still. “Stiles...He's your father.”

Stiles's throat clenched as he nodded, looking down at his shoes. “Yeah, he is,” he managed to say as his stomach churned sickeningly, “and, don't get me wrong, I'm...gonna ask you to go.” He looked up, tears prickling behind his eyes as his mouth twisted into a pained smile. “But I don't _want_ you to.”

Derek didn't hesitate in crossing the room to him, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding fast. Stiles reciprocated the gesture, and for just a moment it felt right, like it used to be...then something in his chest wormed its way to the surface. Derek wasn't as warm as he remembered, his scent not near as strong as it used to be. Was there something wrong with Derek? Was there something wrong with _him_?

“I'll come back, Stiles,” Derek promised, and the tears in Stiles's eyes fell, soaking the older man's shirt. “I'll bring him home for you.”

“I know you will,” Stiles said, breath hitching as he adjusted his head so his mouth and nose were squished into Derek's shoulder. “I feel...selfish. I don't even know what we are anymore, but I'm asking you to go get my pop from—”

“It's okay,” Derek assured him, squeezing tighter. “It's okay, Stiles. I don't...I don't need to know what we are. We can talk about it when I come back.”

“When you come back,” Stiles repeated with a muffled voice, nodding as best he could into the older man's shoulder. His grip slowly loosened until Derek let him go, looking down at their shoes and taking a few deep breaths. “You should...talk.” He stepped back, the heels of his shoes banging against the door. “With the pack.”

“Yeah.” Derek nodded, swallowing hard and stepping to the side. Stiles struggled to find the door handle without looking for a second before finding it and wrenching it with an unnecessary roughness. Derek stepped out of the room, pausing in the hallway and turning back with a half-formed thought on his tongue. “Would you...Would you mind....”

“What time do you want me to be there?” Stiles asked, watching Derek's shoulders relax and the creases in his face disappear. 

“Eight,” he said, starting towards the stairs. “The loft.”

Stiles swallowed. “ 'Kay. I'll be there.” He watched Derek disappear down the stairs, his dad's deep voice sounding in the living room before he closed his bedroom door and released a pent-up breath.

He could do this. It was a pack meeting. All he had to do was show up, be supportive, and leave.

Right?

Stiles looked at the alarm clock beside his bed, wincing at the blaring 4:05 that stared at him. He could get a few hours sleep, at least. If his brain would shut down long enough. The teenager collapsed onto his mattress, wrapping himself in the comforter and closing his eyes. 

_Please don't dream._

_Please._

0 o 0 o 0

The others smelled Stiles before he even stepped off of the elevator, looking at one another then at Derek in confusion and, dare he say it, hope. Derek pursed his lips and sighed heavily, standing and heading towards the door of his loft.

He opened it just as Stiles was approaching, giving the younger man a strained smile and stepping back to let him enter. Stiles nodded, hands restlessly rubbing against his jeans. He looked tired, defeated. Maybe Derek should have let him stay home, sleep. 

“Hey,” he said to the others, smiling as he descended the steps into the den. 

The others stood, genuine happiness on their faces as they greeted Stiles with hugs and pats on the back. Derek could almost remember what it was like before, when they'd had meetings together. Not that they'd had many since Stiles had stopped showing up. They felt wrong without him, like there was a black pit in the room that just kept getting bigger and bigger until they couldn't ignore it anymore.

Scott, especially, had a huge grin on his face, hugging his friend fiercely. “Stiles, what are you doing here?” he asked, pulling away quickly, hands moving to Stiles's shoulders. “Not that you shouldn't be here. You should _definitely_ be here.”

“Of course he should,” Allison said, gently extracting her boyfriend from the teen before sitting Stiles on the couch between Isaac and Lydia. 

Derek didn't miss the hesitation in her eyes. It wasn't where he usually sat. He and Derek had been a team once, two of the same whole. They had always sat together at these things, displaying a united front for the pack. Because if they were strong in the pack, they were strong in life. They were strong against anyone and anything that dared challenge them.

Derek hoped they could find that again.

“We ordered pizza!” Isaac said excitedly, arm slinging around Stiles's shoulders easily. “Lots of meat. And cheesy breadsticks!”

Stiles seemed to relax, the creases on his forehead smoothing out as he laughed. “That sounds...unhealthy. And totally great.”

“We should have gotten a veggie pizza,” Erica pouted, leaning into Boyd and craning her neck to look at Derek. “Why didn't you tell us he was coming?”

Derek swallowed. “I didn't....” 

“I wasn't sure if I'd make it,” Stiles said to his relief. “Didn't want to get your hopes up.” Derek nodded his thanks then made his way to the armchair at the head of the couches and sat.

“We have something to talk about,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice and failing as his eyes met with Stiles's again.

Stiles took a breath and sat forward, hands clasping together as he rested his forearms on his thighs. “I've asked Derek to go to Purgatory. To get my pop.” There was silence. “I...” He shook his head and took another steadying breath. “We want your opinions before we make any final decisions.”

It was a lie. Derek had already made his decision. Whether the pack agreed or not, he was going, and nothing short of Stiles telling him to stay would change his mind. 

“Can we go with you?” Isaac asked, wide eyes looking between the two of them. He started to rub soothing circles into Stiles's back. 

“No,” Derek said, the word quiet but the order clear. 

“Is Stiles going?” Scott asked worriedly, looking his friend up and down. Stiles looked...bad. The trip to Purgatory would require a certain amount of strength, and Stiles looked as if he were still recovering from his last trip several months ago. 

“No,” Derek repeated, watching the relief sweep over the group and the guilt build in Stiles's eyes. 

“You're not going alone,” Boyd said matter-of-factly, and Derek couldn't hide the pride from his face. His pack was strong. He glanced at Stiles and saw the same pride shining through the pain. Their pack was strong. 

“Stiles's Uncle Gabriel will be coming with me,” he explained, relaying the decision that he and the other Winchesters had come to after his meeting with Stiles earlier. He could tell Castiel hadn't been particularly happy about that.

“How will you get back?” Lydia asked, eyebrow arched as if she were the only one asking the real questions. Which was valid. She usually was.

“There are creatures in Purgatory—Alphas,” Derek said, trying his best to hide the hesitation in his voice. Because these creatures might exist in Purgatory. And they might not. It was a bedtime story, at best, and Derek both hoped that he could find them...and that they were as fictional as he believed they were. Creatures like that had power beyond imagine; frightening magic that warranted fear and respect. “They'll be able to get us out.”

“And what do they want in return?” Lydia demanded, the corners of her mouth turning downward. “Is it worth risking your life if the price is too high?”

Derek ground his teeth, sharing a brief look with Stiles before saying, “That doesn't matter. The point is that we'll _all_ make it back. No one will have to stay behind.”

He could see the skepticism on their faces, knew they could see he was hiding something. 

“So,” Stiles said, voice husky, “we'll put it to a vote. Does Derek go to Purgatory?” He looked beside him. “Isaac?”

Isaac looked caught off-guard, swallowing and glancing around at the others before shifting uncomfortably. “I vote...no.” He glanced at Stiles apologetically. “Stiles, I'm sorry, I just....”

Stiles smiled and squeezed Isaac's hand briefly. “It's okay. No explanations needed. If you don't want Derek to go, then say so. That's why we're here.” He looked over at the other couch. “Boyd? Erica?”

Boyd stared at Stiles for a long moment before regretfully shaking his head. “No.”

Erica sat up from leaning against the other. “Yes,” she said, nodding to Stiles confidently. 

“Yes,” Scott said before he was prompted. “I vote yes.” He looked up to Allison, who was sitting on the arm of the chair beside him, their fingers entwined. 

“Yes,” she said softly, her grip on Scott's hand tightening. 

Stiles looked at Lydia, the frown on her face not having budged an inch. “Lyds?”

Her bright gaze swiveled to him. “No,” she said tightly. She was trying to seem impassive, but Derek could hear her heart pounding in her chest, could see the regret flashing across her face. She had her reasons. They all did, he was sure. And he didn't blame any of them for their choices. But the numbers posed a problem.

“Three and three,” Stiles said, reiterating Derek's thoughts aloud.

“What about you, Stiles?” Scott asked, but the teen was already shaking his head. 

“I'm the one asking him to go. I can't vote.”

“Then the decision falls to me,” Derek said, standing as each pair of eyes turned to him, “and I vote yes.” He met each gaze individually, seeking out a challenge amongst them. There wouldn't be, he knew. But it was how things were done. “The decision is made.”

“When do you leave?” Isaac asked, hurt mingling with acceptance on his face. 

“Three days,” Derek said, “which will be spent training.”

“Derek, I don't think we need to train,” Scott chimed in defensively. “We're pretty good at taking care of ourselves. I mean, how long do you plan on being gone?”

Derek breathed heavily through his nostrils, crossing his arms. “I don't know,” he said honestly, “and the training isn't for you. It's for me.”

A silence coated the room, broken by the heavy sound of someone knocking on the door. 

“Probably the pizza,” Erica said, her stomach making an unearthly sound. “Just in time.”

Derek took a step towards the door, but Stiles was up instantly, staring at the door with a strange look on his face. “Stiles?”

“I got it,” he said, stepping around the coffee table and other couches towards the loft door. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles couldn't explain it. He just knew he was the one that was supposed to answer the door. And as soon as his fingers wrapped around the handle, he knew. 

His heart was beating fiercely, something he was sure the others (the ones with crazy werewolf ears, anyway) could hear. He slid the door open. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Karsen smiled at him, his delivery uniform crisp and new. He held five pizza boxes in his hands. 

“Karsen,” Stiles said, clearing his throat when he noticed he was staring a little too intently. “You, uh, got a job, huh?”

“First day,” Karsen said with a half-shrug. “Not the most glamorous, but it pays. Anyway, these are already paid for, so you're good to go.”

“Thanks.” Stiles reached into his pocket before taking the pizzas, handing over a folded five dollar bill. 

“Oh, hey, thanks!” Karsen said, smile wide as he shoved the money into his back pocket. He glanced into the loft over Stiles's shoulder. “Looks like quite the get-together.”

“Yeah.” Stiles's breath stuttered, and he swallowed. “I should, uh, get back to it.”

“Sure, sure,” the other teen said with a nod, taking a step backwards. “I'll see you in Chem!”

“Uh-huh.” He shifted the boxes to one arm, closing the door with the other. As he turned back, he faltered at the looks he was receiving. Mostly curiosity. Derek looked livid. “Uh...That was Karsen. From Chemistry.” He made his way back into the den, setting the boxes on the coffee table and taking a step back towards the door. “I should probably....” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, continuing to back away. “Dad will want me home.”

“You don't want pizza?” Scott asked, puppy eyes on full.

Stiles smiled, face softening as he looked first at Scott then around the room at the others. He really had missed them. A lot. “Thanks. Dad's got dinner waiting. I'll see you guys at school, 'kay?” He took another step, but Scott stood and crossed the room in an instant, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“I'm glad you were here,” he said. 

Stiles reveled in the warmth emanating from his friend. It had been a while since he felt that...from a certain someone. And while it wasn't the same, it was still definitely kind of wonderful. He was reminded very suddenly of the months he'd secluded himself, how cold he'd been. There really was no comparison.

Before he could fully wrap his arms around the other teen, he was surrounded by Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, the warmth almost unbearable, but familiar and welcome. He missed it terribly. And there was nothing he wanted more than to stay and be the family they once were. But a glance in Derek's direction brought back the pain of the past few months, of his uncertainty, and the feeling deep in his gut that he just couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he tried. 

“Thanks, guys,” he managed past the lump in his throat, wiggling his way out of the group and heading towards the door again. He didn't look back. _Couldn't_ look back. Because if he looked back, he knew he would change his mind. He would stay and eat and spend a wonderful evening with his friends. 

And, somehow, that seemed more painful than leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, guys! See you in the next chapter! Very soon! Very, very soon! Promise!


	3. Stiles Sleeps. Stiles Shouts. Stiles Cries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing in this life worth having is simple. You have to fight for what you want. Fight to keep the ones you love safe. Fight for yourself. You are important. You are important to so many people. But you should be especially important to yourself. Fight to survive. You're worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Another chapter for you. I don't know why it took so long to get this up. I've had most of it written since I got the last chapter up...Just being lazy, I guess. Enjoy!

Stiles barely managed to drag himself out of bed the next morning. 

Everything hurt. And not in a good sort of way—which, yeah, he'd felt before, and that had been some pretty awesome hurt. 

But the hurt he felt as he pressed the soles of his feet to the cold floor of his bedroom was not the awesome kind of hurt caused by a pretty awesome night with a pretty awesome ex-someone, who would remain nameless for purposes Stiles really didn't want to get into so early in the morning. 

It was the shitty kind of hurt that hurt the very marrow of his bones—if that was even a thing. He was almost certain it had to be because even his father faltered in the kitchen when Stiles descended the stairs.

“Stiles?” he asked uncertainly, placing the bowl in his hands on the counter and stepping toward the teen. 

“I'm fine, Dad,” Stiles said, but even he didn't believe himself. Shit, he sounded awful. Was that seriously his voice? “I-I think.” His dad's hand was cool on his forehead, and he leaned into the touch gratefully as Castiel frowned in worry. 

“Stiles, you have a fever.” 

“I...” Stiles swallowed hard, wincing at the soreness it caused. “Yeah, I guess I lied. I feel like crap.” 

Castiel sighed and nodded, looking as if a decision had been made. “You're staying home.” 

Stiles groaned. “Can't you just... 'mojo' it away, or something?” 

“Stiles,” his father chastised. 

“Dad, I've never asked you to take away an illness. Ever. Even when I had the chickenpox. Please do this for me.”

Castel drew his lips into a thin line, which meant he was seriously considering it. And without Pop there to make a fuss about how kids should get sick every once in a while because it builds character and blah blah blah, he might actually give in. “All right,” his father conceded, and Stiles did a mental victory dance.

“Thanks,” the teen said, relief coating his tone. His dad placed two fingers against his forehead, and Stiles closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable relief... and when a good ten seconds went by without any change, Stiles cracked one eye open and was met with a deeply concerned pair of blue eyes. “Dad?” 

“I can't heal you, Stiles,” his father said, the tone of his voice indicating it was because of something beyond his ability rather than choice. 

“Are you all right?” Stiles asked, even as his head began to spin and the edges of his vision blurred. 

“Stiles, look at me,” his father demanded, taking the teen's face in both hands. 

“I am,” he said in bewilderment, trying to lift his arms so he could grasp his father's hands with his own and finding them heavy and immovable. 

“Stiles!” his dad called in alarm. 

The ground, suddenly, rushed up to meet him, and then there was darkness. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke to voices. Angry, scared. 

“He's unresponsive. I can't wake him.” His dad sounded frantic—which was a feat, considering he was the world monotone champion. 

“Calm down, Cas. I'll give it a try.” Uncle Gabe. He sounded unsure. 

_Guys, I'm awake!_ Stiles said, but his voice was...distant. Mushed. Like he was in a tunnel made of felt. _Dad! Uncle Gabe!_  
“Gabe, you don't know what's wrong with him. Are you sure you want to—” Uncle Sammy sounded hesitant, worried. 

“How am I supposed to know what's wrong if I don't try to find out?” Uncle Gabe was exasperated. Cautious. He didn't know any more about what the heck was going on than any of them. 

_Guys!_ Stiles tried again desperately. _I'm—_

“Just be careful,” Uncle Sammy warned. Stiles could picture him—arms crossed, thumbnail between his teeth. He felt two cool sets of fingers press into his temples. 

“Come on, kid,” Uncle Gabe muttered. “Gimme somethin' here.” 

_Uncle Gabe! I'm here! I'm right here!_ There was a brief pause, a drawn-in breath, and then Uncle Gabe sighed defeatedly. 

“I'm not getting anything.” 

_No!_ Stiles shouted, near tears—you know, if he had tears. He wasn't sure. It was just... dark. Quiet. Frightening. 

“Well, he didn't just disappear,” his dad said angrily, the fury in his voice almost unrecognizable. Stiles couldn't even picture what his father must look like. He'd never heard this anger before. 

“Cas,” Uncle Sammy tried to console. 

“No! I want to know what the hell is going on with my son!” Frustration and grief in the words. “I want to know why my husband is trapped in Purgatory.” His voice broke, and there was a short pause before he continued, his tone pleading. “Am I... Am I being punished? For falling?” 

“Hey,” Uncle Gabe said sharply, his footsteps echoing in Stiles's small, dark world. “Don't even start with that. You know that's not how it works.” 

“Then why is this happening?” His dad sounded tired. 

“We'll find out,” Uncle Sammy assured. “It's gonna be okay, Cas.” 

Silence, and then his dad spoke, voice relatively back to normal if not a bit shaken. “So what do we do?” 

Some restless shifting. 

“I go to purgatory with Derek,” Uncle Gabe said matter-of-factly. “You and Sammy stay here, do some research. Get his little friends involved. They'll want to help.” 

“Purgatory can wait,” his dad said, tone laced with hurt and disappointment at the very notion of it. 

_No, it can't!_

“No, it can't.” 

Stiles and Uncle Gabe spoke at the same time. 

“We can do this,” Uncle Gabe said, assurance in his tone. “We'll get them both back at the same time. And if I get back with Dean before you figure it out, then we'll just have more heads to bash against the stones, right?” 

“That's not a saying,” Uncle Sammy commented dryly, “but he's right. We split up. We work this out. And we get both Dean and Stiles back, safe and sound.” 

There was a silence of agreement. Or what Stiles assumed was a silence of agreement. There certainly weren't any protests—least of all from him. 

“Derek won't want to leave him like this,” his dad pointed out. 

It was true.

“Derek's going to have to,” Uncle Gabe said grimly. 

Which was also true. 

Stiles just hoped Derek had enough sense in him to listen to reason. Otherwise things were going to get ugly. 

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel stared at his son's prone form from the edge of the teen's bed, running his fingers through Stiles's scruffy hair. He remembered the day Stiles had decided he wanted to grow it out a bit rather than keep it short. It hadn't been much longer after he'd met Derek for the first time. Castiel had seen so much anger and pain in that boy and had known from the beginning that Stiles would be the one to quell those feelings, to bring out the man that Derek used to be. And when Stiles had made the decision to become Derek's mate, Castiel had barley batted an eyelash. Because it was what Stiles wanted. And the fallen angel knew a thing or two about wanting things he couldn't have. 

Or shouldn't have. 

Every day with Dean was a blessing, even the bad days. And especially the days since they had decided to become fathers and raise Stiles as their own. 

When Stiles had made the decision to break up with Derek, Castiel had been more than a little confused. Because his son's demeanor had practically screamed that being apart from Derek was painful. But his words were clear. 

He didn't want Derek anymore. 

And as much as Castiel wanted his son's happiness, he also knew the risks of being forced to do something he didn't want to do. So he gave Stiles space. He gave him time. He let him speak when he wanted to speak, cry when he wanted to cry, and basically wallow in misery and ache. 

While being supportive, of course. 

But being supportive was difficult when all he could do was stand back and watch Stiles try to work things out the way he had always worked things out—by himself. 

There were footsteps on the staircase, hurried and frantic, and Derek suddenly burst into Stiles' bedroom. He was breathing harshly, had probably started running as soon as he had gotten off the phone with Castiel. 

“What happened?” he asked, stepping around the bed and falling to his knees beside it. His right hand hovered uncertainly over the teen's shoulder before he gently placed it there, taking Stiles' hand with his left. 

“I'm not quite certain,” Castiel admitted with a frown. “He collapsed. We haven't been able to wake him.” Derek looked less than pleased with the answer. Castiel didn't blame him. It wasn't much of an answer to begin with. But it was all he had.

Castiel felt uncertain all of a sudden. 

Nervous. 

Derek could choose not to go to Purgatory. He could choose to stay with Stiles and try to help bring him back instead. Which was fine. It was his decision. And he would be helping bring back at least part of the angel's family. But he was also the only one who could get his husband back to him. And the more they prolonged Dean's return, the less likely it was that he might be alive to return at all. 

He'd had Benny the first time, after all—something Castiel didn't like to remember often. 

“Derek,” he said hesitantly, “I understand if you wish to postpone the journey to Purgatory.”

“I do,” Derek said to Castiel's disappointment, his shoulders drooping as something in his chest twisted painfully. “But I won't,” the young werewolf continued, his brows drawn together as he brought Stiles' hand up to his lips. He placed a small kiss into the teen's palm before gently putting the teen's hand back down on the bed and standing. “I made him a promise, Mr. Winchester. I'll bring your husband back.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles drifted. The voices in the outside world faded more and more as time slowly ticked on. He could recognize tones—his father's and his uncles' and even Derek's. But the words were lost to him. 

His will to fight was waning. But he had to. He had to for his dad and his pop. His uncles and his friends. 

For...Derek.

The name hurt to even _think_ of, especially in this place, this void, where all he had were thoughts. 

_Let go, Stiles,_ a voice echoed in the dark, so much clearer than all the others had been. _Release your pain. Let the darkness have you._

_No,_ Stiles said, but even in his own head he sounded weak and exhausted. It would be so easy to give in, let himself fall.

_You can, Stiles,_ the voice encouraged. It sounded...familiar. He knew he'd heard it before. _The world owes you this much. You can have peace. Just let go._

Just let go. It was so simple...But that was what triggered the next voice to explode into his thoughts. 

His pop's gruff tone, scolding. Teaching. “Nothing in this life worth having is simple, Stiles. You have to fight for what you want. Fight to keep the ones you love safe. Fight for yourself. You are important, Stiles. You are important to so many people. But you should be especially important to yourself. Fight to survive, kid. You're worth it.”

The words spurred something in the teen, and he found a new bout of strength that he had desperately needed. This was not the time to give up. Stiles was going to fight. And this—whatever it was—would not stop him from making it back to the people he cared about. 

0 o 0 o 0

“You ready for this?” Gabriel asked, and Derek's gut clenched. No, he certainly was not ready for this. He didn't remember much of Purgatory from his first short jaunt, but he had definitely not been a fan of what he had seen. This time, he'd get to see a hell of a lot more. 

“Yeah,” he said instead, swallowing hard and squaring his shoulders. 

One corner of Gabe's mouth quirked. “Me too,” he said, showing just as much hesitation as Derek felt. “So let's get this show on the road, huh?”

Derek nodded. He'd said his goodbyes to the pack. And to Stiles—which had still been painful, despite the boy's unconsciousness. 

0 o 0 o 0

_“Stiles,” Derek said, holding his breath in anticipation. His hope was that if he said the teen's name often and with enough insistence that Stiles might become so irritated that he woke and demanded that Derek shut the hell up already. Derek knew it could never happen. But the thought lightened the somber mood, at least._

_“I wish you would wake up,” he admitted quietly. Which was stupid._ Everyone _hoped he would wake up. But Derek had different reasoning. “I wish you would tell me why we aren't together anymore.” The words were pouring out of him now, and he couldn't stop them. “Because I'm angry.”_

_He stepped around the bed, looking out the window rather than at the sleeping teen. “There was no warning. No indication. You....” He sighed. “You went all the way to Purgatory to get me, and then...” With a frustrated sigh, he closed his eyes. “This isn't what I meant to say.” He glared out the window._

_“I meant to say I still love you. And that when I get back, we need to talk. So...” He turned, his expression softening. “You need to wake up, Stiles. You_ have _to wake up. You owe me that much.”_

0 o 0 o 0

And that had been it. 

Now, standing in the Winchester's backyard, he wished he'd squeezed Stiles's hand one more time, looked at his face a little longer, breathed in his scent a little deeper.

“All right. Let's go,” Gabe said. Sam stepped forward and engulfed him in a hug one last time. Derek watched it longingly, barely registering that Castiel had stepped toward him until the angel had his arms around him. 

“Be safe,” Castiel whispered as Derek stiffened in surprise.

“Yeah,” the werewolf said, only half returning the gesture. “I will.”

Castiel released him, and Derek was afforded one last flash of worried blue eyes before Gabe put a hand on his shoulder and the world around them shifted.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles felt something in the void tug on him, felt the pain of...loss. 

Derek.

Derek was gone.

The teen wished he could have at least said goodbye. A proper one. Because the one Derek had given him had just been painful. He hated hearing the hurt and frustration in Derek's voice. And he wanted nothing more than to talk to the other man when he returned...if Stiles could figure out what to say. So far, his mind was drawing a blank. Literally! It was friggin' dark in his head. Or what he assumed was his head. He really hoped he wasn't stuck somewhere else, some place he couldn't come back from. 

Thinking was making him tired. He wanted to drift away again...but there was a voice in his ear. 

“Hey, Stiles.”

_Scott?_

“Your dad said it might be good to sit and...talk.”

_That's weird._

“It's kind of weird,” Scott echoed his thoughts. “But he thinks you can hear us. So...Lacrosse practice was crazy. Coach lost his voice, so all we could hear on the field was a bunch of squeaks and angry noises. His face was a lot redder than normal. We all thought he was going to pop.”

God bless Scott.

0 o 0 o 0

“The others wanted to be here,” Scott continued, still feeling pretty funny talking to his sleeping friend. Stiles was usually the one talking, after all. But it was getting easier. A little more comfortable. “But...they're still a little weirded out, I guess. They aren't used to you being so still. It's...scary.”

Scott swallowed and looked away from his friend. It _was_ scary seeing him like that. Stiles was always moving. Even when he was sleeping normally. Stiles just always smelled like... _life_. 

He didn't now. He smelled cold. Dead. 

Scott didn't want to think about that. “Derek and your uncle are gone. They said they'd be back as soon as they can. So, uh...”

Scott struggled to find the words he needed his friend to hear. His best friend. The silly kid he'd met in daycare and never thought twice about befriending. He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest protectively. “So you gotta make it out of this, Stiles. People depend on you. _We_ ,” he gestured to himself desperately, “depend on you. A lot more than you know.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek felt the wind knocked out of him before he doubled over and puked on his own shoes. 

“Shit,” he growled, turning his head away from the smell. They were his favorite pair. Stiles had picked them out for him. Something about arch support and breathability. Derek wasn't sure—he hadn't exactly been paying attention to the shoes at the time... And now he'd have to throw them out. He'd never be able to get rid of the smell. 

“Pretty fussy over a pair of shoes,” a voice to his right said before a sharp snap echoed into the bleak clearing surrounding them. 

The smell disappeared. “Thanks,” Derek managed before straightening.

“Scenic route's always a little bumpy,” Gabriel said, patting him on the shoulder, but Derek was suddenly swept up in sights and sounds and... _everything_. God, it was everywhere

“Shit!” he hissed, covering his ears and clenching his eyes shut. “There's...There's too much!”

Gabe was quick to act, one hand cupping the back of Derek's head while he pressed two fingers against the werewolf's forehead with the other. The intensity assaulting his senses subsided to a dull roar, enough for him to blink his eyes open slowly. 

“Sorry,” Gabe apologized with a grimace. “Forgot you aren't human.” The angel let loose a bitter huff. “Didn't think you'd ever be jealous of their weak senses, did ya?”

Derek did his best to concentrate on Gabe's words. But it was hard when his eyes were trying to liquify and leak out of his skull. His ears popped, which hurt like hell, but helped ease the pain a bit.

“I think I...I'm okay.”

“You sure?” Gabriel asked, his grip on Derek's head loosening somewhat.

“No,” Derek said bluntly. “But we need to stop wasting time and find Mr. Winchester.”

“I can do that,” Gabe said confidently, releasing Derek and taking a step back. 

“Yeah?” the werewolf asked, rubbing at his eyes gingerly and blinking a few times. “Your 'angel mojo' gonna take us to him?”

Gabe laughed at that. “Nah, kid. He's staring right at us.”

Derek blinked again, then dumbly looked over his shoulder where the angel's gaze had settled.

Dean _was_ staring at them. A very disgruntled, dirty Dean, who had a look on his face that was a mixture of anger and disappointment.

“Hi...Mr. Winchester.”

“Hey, Dean-O! How's Purgatory been treating you?”

“What in the _hell_ are you two doing here?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles felt something in the darkness shift, felt the presence of someone else.... At least he hoped it was someone. And not some _thing_.

“Some _thing_? Oh, Stiles, you're hurting my feelings.”

“Who—” 

And then it was like a light switch was flipped.. It was his bedroom. Sort of. It was everything that was _in_ his bedroom, but instead of walls and windows, there was just...darkness. Like the scenery in a play. Stiles had done lighting for the drama club one semester. They'd politely asked him not to return after he'd tried one too many buttons out of curiosity. 

There was someone sitting on his bed. 

Stiles wished he could say he was surprised. But, in retrospect, he probably should have known. 

“Karsen,” he said, an edge of exasperation in his voice. 

“You, Stiles, just keep getting more and more interesting,” Karsen said, glancing around the expanse with an impressed look. “I can see why I was sent to collect you.”

“ _Collect_ me?” the teen asked with a huff. “Who the hell sent you to collect me?”

“My employer would prefer to stay anonymous,” Karsen said, standing from the bed and meandering around the room. He picked up a book and leafed through it. “For the time being.”

“Of course he does,” Stiles sighed.

“What makes you think it's a 'he'?” Karsen snapped the book closed and set it down, his fingers carefully running along the spines of the others lining the bookshelf.

It made Stiles shiver. “Is it a ' _she_ '?”

Karsen shrugged. “Don't know. I've never met them.”

“So it's about, what, money?” 

“Right now, Stiles, this is about you.” Karsen put his hands in his pockets and turned to face the young man. “And your potential.”

Stiles huffed. “You're joking, right? 'Potential'? What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Karsen said, walking towards him slowly until they were barely a foot from one another, “that you have no idea what you're capable of.” He leaned in, his face only inches from Stiles' and his gaze flickering to the teen's lips. “And that I may just keep you for myself.”

0 o 0 o 0

“Why do you think we're here, Dean-O?” Gabe asked, his voice tight despite his attempted nonchalance. “To get your sorry ass out of here.” 

Dean's cheeks hollowed as he clenched his teeth. “And which one of you is taking my place, huh?” he demanded angrily. “I swear to God, if Cas sent you idiots in here to stay in my place—” 

“Relax,” Gabriel said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “No one's taking a dive for you this time.”

Dean looked skeptical. “So, what, you just dropped in to say 'Hello'?”

“We're getting you out of here,” Derek stated boldly, and Dean arched an eyebrow. “No one's getting left here.”

“Sounds great,” Dean said sarcastically, shifting the blade in his right hand anxiously as if getting ready to slice something in half. “How exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Gabriel slapped a hand on Derek's left shoulder, squeezing as he said, “Oh, you're gonna love this, Dean-O.”

The look on Dean's face was not encouraging.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles' stomach twisted. This guy was a for real creeper. “I'm guessing you're not just the new guy in town who's hoping to fit in with the cool kids.”

Karson laughed, but there was little humor in his tone. “You are definitely more than my employer deserves.”

He made his way to the computer chair across the room, sitting and spinning in it once before speaking again. “I used to be like you, Stiles. Family. Friends. Even had some of those nifty little tricks you can do.”

Stiles opened his mouth to deny it, to tell Karsen what he'd been trying to tell himself for the past couple of years: That it was nothing. He wasn't special. He couldn't make vampires explode with a single thought or make the lights in his house flicker when he got angry.

But Karsen was staring at him, a knowing smile playing at his lips. And suddenly it wasn't something Stiles could deny any longer.

“Like me, huh?” The teen knew the tactic—comparing yourself to the other person to gain their trust. “I doubt that.”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Karsen assured him. “I was scared shitless when I started moving things without touching them.”

Stiles frowned. “I can't—” 

“You _could_ ,” Karsen said, standing and gesturing enthusiastically. “You could do _so much_.”

“Potential, right?” Stiles asked bitterly.

“ _Exactly_ ,” the other man said, as if the question had been asked earnestly. “ _Potential_. I could teach you things, Stiles. So much your head would spin. You—” Karsen approached him again, hands held out like he wanted to grab the teen and shake him, but he didn't touch him. “—are amazing. From the moment I saw you, I knew you would be. I'm in awe of you.”

“That's a little creepy,” Stiles said honestly, wanting to take a step back and finding that he couldn't. 

“You deserve the _world_ , Stiles,” Karsen continued. He kept saying Stiles' name. It was unnerving. “And I can give it to you. But....”

Stiles did not like the sound of that word at all.

“...you have to let go.”

The teen swallowed. “Let go of what?”

Karsen let his hands fall on Stiles' shoulders then, his touch gentle and warm—like Derek's was...or used to be. “Everything,” he said. “Family. Friends.” Something shifted across his eyes. “And Derek.”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. “In case you hadn't noticed, I already did. We aren't together anymore.”

“That's not what I said.” Karsen stepped forward, pressing himself into Stiles and gripping the fabric at the teen's hips. 

Stiles' skin crawled. His hands came up, braced against Karsen's upper arms as he tried to separate himself from the other man. But the contact only spurred Karsen further. He pulled Stiles closer, rutting up against him. 

“Stop,” the teen said desperately, sucking in a breath as Karsen started to lean in. He turned his face away, and Karsen took the opportunity to brush his lips along Stiles' jawline. 

“Let him go, Stiles,” he said, his breath raising goosebumps across the teen's skin. “Give yourself to me. And let him go.”

“I c—” Stiles gasped, fingers digging into Karsen's arms as the man bit at the skin below his ear. “I can't.” He tried to push the man away. It was like the strength in his whole body had suddenly vanished. “Karsen. _Stop_. Don't...Don't do this.”

Karsen did, and Stiles nearly collapsed out of relief.

“Derek will never be what you need,” Karsen said, his tone tight and frustrated.

“And you...you think you can be?” The teen's voice shook.

“I already am,” the other man boasted. “You'll see.”

Karsen suddenly disappeared, and Stiles' knees gave out. He fell to the floor of the empty room and cried into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie, artichokies! This is the OFFICIAL WARNING for the next couple of chapters. Karsen is gonna get super-duper creepy and touchy-feely here pretty soon. There will be NO SEX (between Karsen and Stiles), in case you have any qualms about that. But there will be quite a bit of mouth-on-mouth action and general grinding motions around the hip area. Just wanted you all to be aware and not get blind-sided by something that might trigger some unpleasantness. 
> 
> Off I go!! Later, Gators!! Catch you soon!!


	4. Revelation. Prophecy. Submission.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's going to get worse...Stiles is dying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello!! You look so wonderful today! And everyday! You are amazing! Look at you being all wonderful and stuff! I love it! Keep it up! 
> 
> Sorry to keep you all waiting for these updates. Work has been a little ridiculous lately. My schedule changed from just days to half-days and half-overnights, and on top of that, I'm going to be moving soon, so I will certainly do my best to write in between packing!!! Really, you all have been so wonderful and patient, and I appreciate every one of you so much! Hope this chapter satisfies and answers some questions you have been asking!
> 
> Just as a last reminder, this chapter (and the next) will have some heavy Karsen/Stiles (no sex, just unwanted grinding and kissing/touching), so if any of that bothers you, feel free to skip those scenes, or the chapters entirely. I'll be sure to keep you updated when it's all right to read again! Promise, Lovelies! :D

“And you can find these alphas?” Dean asked skeptically, glancing back and forth between Gabe and Derek. 

Derek's stomach twisted. “Uh—” 

Gabriel was quick to intervene. “Sure we can, Dean-O. We wouldn't have come otherwise.

Dean's eyes narrowed. “Right.” He glanced around them, scanning the area before giving them a pointed look and gesturing with his blade. “Lead the way, then.”

Derek swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders and recalling the training he and Gabriel had been doing the past week.

_One Week Ago:_

_“You gotta clear you mind, kid,” Gabe said, sighing as Derek opened his eyes and gave the angel a frustrated glare._

_“I'm trying.”_

_“Not hard enough, apparently.” Gabriel paced the loft's living room. “You're distracted.”_

_“I'm fine.”_

_“You're not,” the angel insisted. “And I know why.”_

_Derek huffed. “I don't like people in my head.”_

_Gabriel rolled his eyes. “What makes you think I've been anywhere near your head? I'm talking about your_ pining, _kid.”_

 _Derek also didn't like being called_ kid. 

_“I see it all over your face anytime someone even mentions Stiles,” the angel continued, stopping to point at the werewolf's face. “There. That look_ right there. _Seriously, not to be rude, but it's kind of pathetic.”_

_“How is that not rude?” Derek questioned, attempting to school his features. “What does he have to do with this?”_

_“Well, you're doing this for him, aren't you?” Gabriel asked._

_“I guess,” Derek admitted reluctantly._

_“But you're fucking pissed at him, right?”_

_“That's not—”_

_“Just say it!” Gabriel demanded, throwing his arms up. “Scream it, for God's sake. Be. Angry.” He said the last two words forcefully, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You have a right to be angry, Derek. The kid fucking left you. No explanation, no chance for you to talk about it. Just up and decided you weren't worth the hassle anymore.” Gabe stopped moving, centering a cold look on him. “And you let him.”_

_Derek's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles an alarming shade of white. “That's not—” he burst suddenly. “Fine! Yeah, I'm angry!” He began to pace restlessly, fingers running through his hair and tugging until it hurt. “I'm pissed. I left my family for him. I don't even—”_

_He let out a loud, frustrated sound and punched through the brick of a nearby wall, continuing to pace as his hand bled and healed. “I don't even_ remember. _” Voice breaking on the last word, he stopped, fighting the prickling behind his eyes. “I can't remember anything from the Fields. Not a single memory. Just that...” He swallowed and took a steadying breath. “I was with them, and I was happy. And I gave that up because I knew Stiles needed me.”_

_Derek's teeth clenched, creaking painfully and making him grimace. “I was wrong.”_

_Silence mingled with the dusty air in the loft until Gabe finally took a breath. “Got it out of your system?” Derek let a low growl rumble in the bottom of his throat. “Good. Back to work, then.”_

Present Day: 

Much to his chagrin, Derek had found that the center of this _homing beacon_ (Gabe's words, obviously) was anger—which seemed to be a running theme in his life. So it was with irritation that the werewolf found himself steering his mind towards the thoughts that twisted his stomach into guilty knots. 

For a moment nothing happened, and all that came to him was how stupid he must look standing there with his eyes closed while darkness crept around them and the cold began to seep into his bones. He was about to call it when, suddenly, something behind his eyes shifted and clicked into place. His eyes snapped open. Color was gone, replaced by dark and gray tones...except for a small sliver of light down on the ground that started at his feet and faded into the distance.

 _Follow the yellow-brick road,_ a very Stiles-like voice said from one corner of his mind, and Derek resisted the urge to huff. He hadn't heard Stiles' quips in some time, and he was ashamed to say that he'd taken them for granted. He missed them now. 

“This way,” he said to clear his head of those thoughts—they weren't the ones he needed—as he set forth along the path that would hopefully lead them to what they wanted most. 

_Home._

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel felt uneasy when the doorbell rang. His limited senses told him who it was on the other side of the door, but it was as if all he was able to feel was the surface of something much deeper...and much darker. 

With a steadying breath, he opened the front door and offered as polite a smile as he could muster. “Hello, Karsen.”

“Hi, Mr. Winchester,” Karsen said, an easy grin on his face. “I heard Stiles was sick today, so I brought his chem homework.”

“That's very kind,” Castiel said, his teeth involuntarily grinding as he took the folder being handed to him. Something prickled at the base of his spine. 

“Is he feeling any better?” Karsen asked, one eyebrow quirked as if he were fishing for information he already knew. 

“I'm afraid not. He may be out the rest of the week.” The angel swore he saw something flash across the boy's eyes...Triumph?

“I'd be happy to drop his homework by on my way home while he's out.” 

Castiel nodded carefully. “I'm sure Stiles would appreciate that. Thank you, Karsen.”

“No trouble at all,” Karsen smiled, and it was genuine. Maybe the angel was just on edge. “I hope he feels better soon.”

Castiel gave another curt nod and a strained smile before closing the door with a short “Thank you.” Standing at the door for a moment, he clutched the folder to his chest.

Stiles was nowhere near getting better. In fact, he was getting worse. Much worse. The teen had started crying in his sleep, calling out for Castiel or Dean or Derek—Derek more than any of them. And there was nothing any of them could do. Castiel could not soothe away these nightmares like he had when Stiles was only a child. And that seemed to be the angel's own nightmare—standing aside helplessly while his son suffered. 

It was the most painful thing Castiel had ever felt...and he had felt pain beyond measure. 

“Cas?” Sam called, pulling him from his thoughts. 

The angel drew in a breath and released it in a shuddering gust, stepping away from the door and back into the living room. Sam looked up from his laptop and frowned, searching the angel's face. 

“You okay?”

Castiel swallowed and placed the folder down on the coffee table. “Have you found something?”

Sam pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to say more but answering the angel's question instead. “Maybe,” he said with skepticism. “There isn't a whole lot out there about mystical comas, other than the fact that they aren't easy to break.”

Castiel nodded absently, gaze shifting down and to the side. He felt...something. Like they were being watched, or listened to.

“Hey,” Sam said, standing and heading towards him. “You should get some rest. You look tired.”

“I can't afford to sleep,” the angel argued. “Something's wrong. Something...” Castiel turned and looked at the front door over his shoulder.

“Cas?” Sam asked, apprehensively placing a warm hand on the angel's shoulder. 

Castiel shivered and turned back, wide eyes swimming. “It's going to get worse. Sam...” He choked on the name, and Sam quickly drew him into a hug, holding him tightly. “Stiles is dying.”

Castiel buried his face in the tall man's shoulder and did something he hadn't done for a very long time. 

He cried.

0 o 0 o 0

Scott wilted a little on the Winchester porch, trying his best to keep the words he'd just heard from echoing in his head. 

_Stiles is dying._

Yeah, it's not like he was naïve enough to think his best friend would just all of a sudden be fine and dandy, or that he'd wait for them to find an answer to all this bullshit before getting worse. But he hadn't outright wanted to think about....

Scott swallowed and steeled himself, placing a hand on the doorknob. Movement from down the street caught his attention, however, and he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see someone enter the house a few doors down. It was that new guy. Karsen something. Scott didn't have any classes with him. Neither did any of the pack, actually...

And didn't that house used to belong to the Carsons?

A chill settled at the base of Scott's neck, and he shivered, releasing the doorknob and turning fully towards the house down the street. His gut was telling him he needed to check it out. But just as he took a step to leave the porch, a car pulled into the driveway. 

It was Derek's.

Erica jumped from the driver's seat, a satisfied smirk on her face, while Isaac and Boyd carefully exited from the passenger side looking queasy and pale.

“Can she please not drive anymore?” Isaac mumbled to Boyd as the three made their way to the house. 

“She's no worse than Derek,” Boyd commented quietly. 

“Aw,” Erica cooed, teeth glinting as she wrapped her arms around the taller teen. “You're so sweet to me.” 

When they caught sight of Scott's rigid stance, however, they stopped, searching the street for what could have raised his hackles.

“What is it?” Isaac asked, moving to Scott's side and scanning the area.

Scott put all the strength he had into relaxing his stiff posture, which wasn't easy considering everything in him was trying to gear up for a fight. 

“Nothing,” he said, ignoring the skeptical looks. “We can talk about it later.” He turned towards the house again and opened the door. “I'm sure Stiles will be glad you're here.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles _was_ glad.

He sat on his bed in the dark and listened to his friends talk about school and lacrosse and pack stuff. 

It was good. More than once, Stiles would say something sarcastic or what he deemed witty...and then be disappointed when he realized no one could hear him. But other than that, it was...good.

“Good?” a familiar and unwelcome voice scoffed, his friends' fading away. Karsen appeared at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets and a disbelieving look on his face. “Stiles, this is downright _painful_ , even for me.”

“So let me go,” Stiles said dully, rubbing at the sudden pain in his chest. It was growing, spreading, making it more and more difficult to breathe. 

“Sure,” Karsen said, shrugging as if all Stiles had had to do was ask and walking around the bed to sit beside the teen. 

Stiles looked up at him, not daring to let his hopes rise. It was a trick. He wanted something.

Karsen rolled his eyes. “Well, of course I want something,” he admitted. “You already know what it is.” His gaze shifted between Stiles' eyes for a long moment, the silence stretching and making the teen squirm, before he surged forward, capturing Stiles' lips in a fierce kiss.

Stiles' hands immediately came up, pressing to the other's chest and trying to push him away. The strength to do so would not come to his arms, and he made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as the kiss deepened.

“I could make this good for you, Stiles,” Karsen whispered against his wet, swollen lips. One of Karsen's hands reached around to cradle the back of the teen's head, the other at his hip where his shirt hem was riding up. “I could make everything good for you.” Leaning forward, he pushed Stiles back onto the bed, one leg settling between Stiles' as he ground into the teen's thigh.

Stiles turned his head away, closing his eyes as his body shuddered from his failed attempts to take control. It was like before—his limbs strengthless. And he had no qualms about how far Karsen would take this. 

“So much better than he ever could,” Karsen breathed into his ear, and Stiles whimpered as the other man started a slow trail with his tongue and his lips down his jawline, his neck. He sucked lightly at the teen's collarbone, undoing the buttons of Stiles' shirt slowly and methodically. 

“Don't,” Stiles said weakly, arching as Karsen shifted the fabric to uncover a nipple and began to suck and bite at it until it was red and peaked. He could feel himself becoming aroused, and he willed his traitorous body to stop stop _stop_. “Karsen—” 

The other teen stopped and leaned his forehead against Stiles' chest, releasing a shuddering breath. “Yes, Stiles, yes. Say my name again. Please, please say it.”

Stiles clenched his teeth, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head desperately. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. 

Karsen moved back up to his ear, breathing against it raggedly. “The next time I hear my name from your mouth, you'll be screaming it.” He smiled against Stiles' neck and bit into the taught skin, grabbing hold of the teen's wrists and positioning Stiles' arms up over his head. “You'll be begging for me, Stiles. Begging and begging and _begging_.” With each word he thrust into Stiles' thigh, giving a satisfied moan before sliding back down and beginning to suck on the teen's other nipple. 

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, tried to keep his body from reacting the way it was. It was difficult. Every thought he had turned to the one person he'd tried very hard not to think of over the past few months. But...anything was better than this. Even blissful memories that only seemed to bring him pain.

He remembered doing these things with Derek. Not that fast and rough wasn't fun. But he'd liked these moments best. It was usually a weekend morning at the loft, the pack gone somewhere for the night to give them privacy. He'd wake to stubble scrubbing along his neck, his body still aching wonderfully from the night before. Derek would lick and kiss and nip trails over every inch of skin until Stiles was gasping and writhing under his warmth. 

Derek was warm. 

Derek was _home._

How...had Stiles forgotten that?

Stiles cried as a sudden cold stamped the thoughts and feelings out, brought him back to his dark world and the person on top of him. 

“He isn't like that,” Karsen said defensively, anger (and...worry?) in his eyes as he stared directly down at the teen. “Derek isn't good. You don't belong with him.”

Stiles searched the other's cold eyes, something blooming in him that made his chest hurt worse than the cold ever did...but something that felt _right._

“Yes. I do,” he claimed, gasping at the conviction in the words. “I _do_. I... Derek is _mine_. And I'm his, and I _belong_ with him. Not...” He glanced around the darkness as if seeing it for the first time. “This is me.” He sat up beneath the other man, too dumbstruck by his sudden realization to notice that he was able to move again. “We're in _me_ , and this—” He gestured to the darkness around him, then centered his gaze on an anxious Karsen. “—is you. How did you...” Stiles' eyes widened. “You're from _Purgatory_.” Karsen flinched, as if just the name was painful to hear. “You...hitched a ride, or something, and now you're—” The teen made a face. “Ugh. Gross! You're inside me. That's—God, that's disgusting!” 

Karsen lurched forward with an angry noise, pinning Sitles to the bed again. But Stiles could still feel his own strength, knew he had the power of will to make... _whatever_ Karsen was leave.

“ _I'm_ disgusting?” Karsen snarled, fingernails digging into the teen's arms. “Do you even know what you are? What you can do? All this power, and you're _wasting_ it, Stiles! Wasting it on a pathetic thing like _Derek Hale_.” He bared his teeth, his eyes going pitch black. “He doesn't deserve you.”

Stiles felt a wild fury bubble in his stomach, and suddenly Karsen was torn off of him, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. Stiles sat up, and then stood, rounding the bed as his anger took hold. “And you think _you_ do?”

Karsen laughed, spitting blood to the ground and wiping his mouth. “No one does.” He stood shakily, his breathing heavy as he set a dark gaze on the teen. “You don't need anyone, Stiles. Your power is consuming. You could take this world with just a twitch of your finger, command armies with just a look.”

Stiles faltered. “I don't...I don't want that.”

“It doesn't matter,” Karsen said, a frightening look on his face. “You are the prophecy. _The world will become dark. The creatures of all realms will converge. The Boy King will lead us all._ ”

0 o 0 o 0

“You don't believe the alphas exist.” 

Dean looked up to find Derek staring at him from the other side of the fire pit they'd built and settled around. Barely four hours into their _quest_ , Gabriel had collapsed from exhaustion. 

_“Lasted longer than last time, huh?”_ he'd chuckled with a pained look. He was currently huddled on the ground, using Dean's dirty jacket as a pillow. 

“Sure I do,” the hunter said quietly, placing a hand on Gabriel's shoulder to quell his shivering. The contact was...nice. Grounding. He hadn't had that for a while. At least the first time around he'd had Castiel...and Benny. There was something a little more chaotic about being in _Purgatory_ alone, having to watch your own back and knowing your only options were survival and nothingness. “I just don't buy that they can get us out of here scott-free.”

Derek frowned. “Not free, no. They—” 

“Take something,” Dean finished. “Yeah, I get that part. But the last time I left here, something else found its way out with me.” He swallowed and looked at the fire, letting its warmth wash over his face. “Something dark.”

Derek stared at him for a long moment before looking down into the fire as well. “Stiles is...different. Changed.”

This raised the hairs on the back of Dean's neck. “What do you mean?” Gabriel had been very evasive about his questions concerning Cas and Stiles. He'd definitely wanted a little more than _“They're fine, Dean-O”_ anyway. 

Derek shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and clasped his hands together. “He...broke up with me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. It didn't exactly constitute odd behavior, considering what the kid had been through, but he had been kind of hung up on this guy. He stayed quiet, waiting for the werewolf to continue.

“I mean, I understand that's not...He's not _obligated_ to stay with me, and if he chose not to, I'd respect that. I _have_ been. But...” Derek sighed. “Your husband came to see me. He said he'd noticed it, too. That Stiles just wasn't...Stiles.”

“Cas said that?” Dean demanded. Cas' gut was strong, even as a fallen angel, and if he said something was wrong with their son, then something was definitely wrong.

“He has nightmares,” Derek said, eyebrows drawing together, “every night. He looks tired all the time. He doesn't eat, he doesn't go out—” 

“Well, you're doing a bang-up job of keeping your distance,” the hunter said with only a hint of amusement in his tone. 

“I do,” Derek insisted. “I only know what my pack tells me.” He looked up. “They worry.”

“Did Stiles ask you to come here?”

“Your husband asked me,” the werewolf admitted. “But I wouldn't have come without Stiles' permission.” 

Dean nodded. “Fair enough.”

Derek took a breath and opened his mouth, faltering before he could make a sound.

“There's more?” the hunter asked, wiping his face tiredly. 

“Stiles is...” Derek's hands were wringing restlessly. “He's kind of in a coma.”

0 o 0 o 0

Scott stopped in the entryway of the Winchester's home, waving to Isaac, Erica, and Boyd as they started out the door. “I'll catch up with you guys.” Closing the door after them, he made his way into the living room, where Stiles' uncle and Castiel were having a murmured conversation.

“Mr. Winchester?” he called tentatively, realizing too late that the name actually addressed both men when he received two inquiring looks. “Uh, sorry...I was just wondering if there was anything you needed? Or something I could do?” He squirmed a bit under the soft look Castiel gave him. “My mom said she'd come over and cook whenever you need it.”

“That's very kind, Scott, thank you,” Castiel said, looking tired and sad. It was a familiar look, one Scott had seen on his mom's face countless times when she thought she was alone. “Tell your mother that I appreciate the offer and that I'll keep it in mind.”

Scott nodded, waiting a few more seconds before turning to the door.

“Scott?” Stiles' uncle called, and he turned back, swallowing nervously. Sam Winchester was very nice—much nicer than his brother, anyway—but the teen never let the fact that the man was a hunter slip his mind. The Winchester family had a frightening reputation, and best friend of the youngest Winchester or no, Scott was always still wary in their presence. 

“Yes, sir?” Scott asked, hunching his shoulders when the older man smiled and chuckled at the formality.

“Do you know anything about the new student at your school?” Sam asked. 

An involuntary shiver ran up Scott's spine, and his eyebrows drew together. “You mean Karsen?”

The two men shared a look, and then Castiel spoke. “Do you know him? Has Stiles mentioned anything about him?”

Scott swallowed and paused for a moment as he scanned his memory. “No, not really,” he said in answer to both questions. “I think he's Stiles' chemistry partner, but none of the pack has any classes with him.”

“Do you... _sense_ anything about him?” Sam asked carefully. 

The teen tensed uncomfortably, his gaze inadvertently shifting to the front door, as if Karsen stood on the other side. “He doesn't...” Scott screwed his face up into a look of frustrated confusion—a look that Stiles would call constipated—and focused his gaze back on the expectant men. “...have a scent.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded odd, but when both Sam and Castiel shared an intrigued look, Scott knew the observation held significance.

“Nothing at all?” Sam questioned, and Scott shook his head. “Probably not a demon, then. Would have smelled sulfur all over the kid. Plus your house is essentially a giant demon trap. He wouldn't be able to set foot near it without being caught. Do you think it's a hex?”

Castiel shook his head with a contemplative frown. “Dean has hex wards around the entire house.”

Scott listened intently, in awe of how soundly the Winchester home seemed to be safe-guarded. No wonder they seemed to end up here all the time. Stiles knew it was the safest place for them. For his family.

But what if...

“What if it's too safe?” he wondered aloud. Both men stopped talking and turned in the werewolf's direction. “Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to—” 

“What do you mean 'too safe'?” Sam asked abruptly, leaning forward and staring the teen down. 

Scott took a breath and held it, shrugging. “Uh...Well, what if whatever is doing this to Stiles is protected by the wards, too? Like...it's using them to keep itself protected... _in_ Stiles?”

Sam's eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and he turned to Castiel with a questioning look. 

The angel brought restless fingers to his frowning lips, returning Sam's hopeful gaze with a deeply contemplative stare. “It's...possible.” 

“So what do we do?” Sam asked. “Take him out of the house?”

Castiel shook his head. “If whatever has Stiles has the power to keep him this way—even from Gabriel—then it certainly has the power to...kill him.” The angel took a shuddering breath. “And removing Stiles from a place where it feels protected might just be the motivation it needs to do that.”

“Well, what the hell's more powerful than an archangel?” Sam demanded, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.

Scott knew the answer to that one. “What about a Leviathan?”

Again, the adults looked at him like they'd completely forgotten he was there but like he'd provided them with the answer to life itself.

“How do you know about Leviathans?” Castiel asked carefully.

The teen grimaced, hoping he hadn't just gotten his best friend into trouble. “Last year when we went camping—” Well, sort of camping. Jackson's parents owned several retreat cabins up north and had offered them to the pack for a couple weeks during summer vacation. It had been a good time...Scott missed those good times. “—we had a scary creature story contest.” The werewolf bit the inside of his cheek, remembering his own stupid story about a swamp creature his dad's parents swore they'd encountered down in Florida. “Stiles won.”

Sam and Castiel exchanged yet another look, which was becoming irritating, since it seemed to be a super secret Winchester language that kept everyone else out of the loop. Stiles was usually their translator, as he spoke “Winchester” fluently, so without him, it was just a bunch of angsty glances and worried frowns.

“It makes sense,” Sam conceded. “Stiles could have unknowingly brought one back with him from _Purgatory_.”

“One working alone, though?” Castiel asked, rubbing at his chest absently. He'd gone very pale when Scott had mentioned the creatures, and the teen felt a surge of guilt when he recalled Stiles' story about how their family was associated with them. “They usually swarm in groups.”

“But it's not unheard of,” Sam pointed out. “It could be a rogue. Or trying to find a way to release the others again.”

Castiel winced on the word “again,” nodding solemnly. “We do know how to get rid of Leviathans.”

“Do you think Crowley would be willing to help again?”

The angel frowned. “It's doubtful. But we also have ways of...persuading him.” He offered Scott a cursory glance and tried his best to smile. “Scott, thank you for coming to see Stiles.”

“And for the help,” Sam added with a genuine smile of his own

“I'm sure your mother will want you home for dinner,” Castiel finished, and the dismissal was clear.

“No problem,” Scott said with a nod, heading for the door as he tried to keep track of everything he'd heard. Leviathans were stronger than angels. And these men knew how to kill Leviathans. 

Scott was definitely right to be scared of the Winchesters. But the sudden surge of hope quickly snuffed his fears out. Stiles was coming back to them.

He _was_.

0 o 0 o 0

Across the street, Karsen watched the werewolf retreat from the Winchester house, his eyes flashing darkly as he frowned. Someone stepped up behind him, stilling just over his left shoulder.

“He'll want to know you've been discovered,” the man posing as his brother said quietly. 

“They only suspect,” Karsen argued, frown deepening as the other sighed heavily.

“Perhaps if you hadn't made yourself so...noticeable,” the man said, flinching when Karsen turned his head abruptly.

“Perhaps if you minded your own business,” he snapped, gaze slowly returning to the window. Outside, darkness began to creep over the quiet suburb, houses from one side of the street letting their shadows stretch over the houses on the other. He would visit Stiles again tonight, try one last time to convince him before he made the decision to give the teen no choice in the matter.

“If he finds out about your ulterior motives, he'll kill us both,” the man behind him said before turning and heading up the stairs.

“And if I can command the object he desires most, he'll be answering to me,” Karsen said to the empty room, turning to follow his companion up the stairs after a moment.

Stiles would submit.

Karsen would break him down until he played nice like the good boy he was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so love answering questions (or just chatting in general), so if you have anything you want to discuss, please feel free to message me on [my tumblr](sarahatqt.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Again, there will be a little more Karsen/Stiles in the next chapter, just as another heads up! Once more (with feeling), no sex. Just the sloppy, grindy kind of stuff, definitely unwanted on Stiles' end. Thank you again for being so amazing! I'll catch you all in the next chapter! :)


	5. I Scream. You Scream. We All Scream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything ends up in Purgatory eventually. Even your dads. Because once that place has a taste for someone—there's no escaping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! You look so great today! Look at you looking so gosh darn wonderful! I love your face! :D
> 
> I really am sorry about the crazy long waits between chapters. I wish I had more time to write. But I have some really great ideas for how this story is progressing, and I think I should have this part finished by the end of July, at the latest...but don't hold me to that.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Boy King,” Stiles said to himself from the dark of his not-room, frowning into the emptiness. It was impossible. That prophecy was decades old, at least. It had been about his uncle. Not him. 

He sighed, wracking his brain for anything and everything he'd made his Uncle Sammy tell him about that prophecy late one night when the older man had gotten drunk.

...Okay. Stiles hadn't exactly helped in that matter, but he'd figured out a long time ago that alcohol was a sure fire way to loosen lips in his family....

_//“Boy King?” Stiles asked, pouring a bit more whiskey in his uncle's near-empty glass. The words had just sort of slipped out, his uncle laughing after saying them like it was a joke he hadn't thought of in a while._

_“Long dead prophecy, Stiles,” he said, his words slurring. He had a much higher tolerance than Uncle Gabe and his Dad, and only slightly less than his Pop. But the other three men happened to be out at the moment, Uncle Sammy left to babysit. Stiles felt like it was the other way around. Uncle Sammy hated being the one left behind, hence why getting him to drink was fairly easy._

_Well, he said “easy.” His uncle was still giving him a wary look as Stiles kept his hand firmly on the whiskey bottle. He drank from the freshly filled glass anyway._

_“No harm in talking about it then, right?” Stiles murmured with an encouraging smile._

_His uncle sighed and scrubbed at his face wearily. “If your parents ever ask where you heard this—”_

_“They won't hear a word from me,” Stiles promised eagerly, shifting closer in his chair at the kitchen table._

_“Okay,” Uncle Sammy said, downing the rest of his drink and flipping it upside down on the table to keep Stiles from filling it again. “You know about the demon blood. And your dad killing the yellow-eyed demon. And the connection between them.”_

_Stiles nodded several times. He knew, of course, from other similar occasions where Uncle Sammy had been quite a bit more inebriated. Stiles figured the older man was just finally giving in to his inquisitive nature._

_So he knew that a long time ago, when things were quiet and happy and the thought of monsters in the closet was just something silly, Mary and John Winchester had two sons. And they lived happily ever after._

_Except not._

_Because the fire that had killed Mary had changed everything, had released the monsters from the closet and thrown the Winchester men into the wide world of saving people, hunting things—the_ family business.

 _What Stiles was desperate to find out, and what Uncle Sammy hadn't been drunk enough to tell him yet, was_ why. 

_“Right,” his uncle said, turning to face the teen a little more. “So the reason all that bullshit started was because the yellow-eyed demon wanted me.”_

_“Because of your ability,” Stiles said impatiently. He knew that part already._

_But Uncle Sammy was shaking his head. “No, he_ gave _that ability to me. He could have picked any one of the kids he gave his blood to. But he picked me.”_

_“Why?” the teen said, sucking in a breath and holding it._

_His uncle blinked slowly and shook his head as the alcohol settled. “For his army.”_

_“Of kids with abilities,” Stiles sighed and leaned back. “I know, Uncle Sammy. He wanted to lead an army to take over hell or the world or whatever.”_

_“No, he didn't—he didn't want to lead anything.” His uncle hiccoughed and leaned back in his chair, eyeing his over-turned glass like he was contemplating flipping it back over. “He wanted to sit back and watch the world burn while everyone else did the dirty work. He wanted_ me—” _He paused, shoulders hunching as his eyebrows drew together. “—to lead his army.” He huffed a laugh and darted his hand out to turn the glass right side up again before motioning for Stiles to fill it._

_The teen did, though somewhat guiltily._

_“And I can't, for the life of me,” his uncle said, picking up the drink before Stiles was even finished pouring and downing the contents quickly, “understand_ why. _Why me?” He dropped the glass down hard on the table and rubbed at his mouth._

_Stiles swallowed and took a steadying breath, capping the whiskey and setting it aside. “Because...you're a Winchester,” he said, shaking his head when his uncle started to laugh at the mere thought of it. “You're strong.”_

_“Plenty of people are strong,” his uncle argued._

_“Not as strong as you and Dad,” the teen said. “I mean, you're hunters. From a very long line of hunters.” Uncle Sammy frowned but kept quiet. “I'm sure not everyone survived...what he did. He only wanted the ones who could. And he wanted someone who came from a family of strength, someone he could manipulate and turn into what he wanted.”_

_“So he chose me,” his uncle scoffed, “instead of Dean because he knew I'd be easier to manipulate.”_

_Stiles paused and looked down at his wringing hands. “Or...because he thought Pop wouldn't be strong enough.”_

_Uncle Sammy's jaw tightened, and he sat forward, a determined look on his face as he pointed a shaking finger at him. “Don't. Ever. Say that about your dad again,” he said firmly, eyes wet and red-rimmed._

_Stiles nodded, sucking in a tight breath and running his fingers through his hair. “I guess he was wrong then, huh?” At his uncle's frown, he continued with, “About the Boy King?”_

_The older man frowned more deeply. “Your dads will be home soon. You should go to bed.”_

_Stiles did._

_And Uncle Sammy didn't drink around him anymore.//_

“No,” Stiles said aloud, denial squirming in the single word. The yellow-eyed demon wasn't even alive anymore. Why...

“You think so?” Karsen asked, appearing across the room, and Stiles sat up abruptly.

“I know so,” he replied as confidently as he could, though uncertainty blossomed in his chest—his chest that felt tight and on fire. “My Pop killed him.”

“And where is it you think demons go when they die?”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows. “Back to hell.”

Karsen tsked and shook his head as if scolding the teen. “Your family should know by now, Stiles,” he said, shifting his shoulders tauntingly as he sidled onto the bed and into Stiles' personal space. “Everything ends up in Purgatory eventually.” He bared his teeth. “Even your dads. Because once that place has a taste for someone—there's no escaping.”

0 o 0 o 0

Gabriel lagged behind Dean and Derek considerably, trying his best to keep his breathing under control. Derek led them, his eyes glowing a bright blue as he concentrated on the unseen path ahead. Dean had expressed his concerns about the glow attracting some unwanted attention, but thus far they hadn't had any problems. The hunter remained vigilant regardless, watching the surrounding area carefully and murmuring to himself every so often. Gabriel assumed it was an effect of being alone for so long. 

And Dean had always been a Chatty-Kathy.

The hunter glanced over his shoulder for the umpteenth time, not making eye contact but silently asking if Gabe needed them to stop again. The angel huffed and shook his head minutely. No. Not yet.

“Soon, though,” he said breathlessly, and Dean nodded.

“How much farther?” the hunter called ahead. He'd asked a couple of times already, and the response so far had been—

“A ways.” The werewolf's tone was absent of emotion, his eyes still glowing a sharp blue.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, the blade in his hand shifting restlessly. He was probably itching to use it...or wondering why he hadn't needed to yet. “I figured.”

“The path keeps...shifting,” Derek said, the first signs of frustration leaking into his voice.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked warily, and Gabriel's stomach gave a slight lurch.

“Like it's trying to split,” Derek explained slowly, as if he were having trouble finding the words. “I think there's more than one path.”

“And what does _that_ mean?” Dean asked again gruffly. He sounded tired. Probably hadn't had a decent night's sleep in...ever.

Gabriel stopped walking abruptly, feeling exhaustion overtake him much more suddenly than it had before as the realization sunk deeper into the pit of his stomach. Dean glanced back, placing a hand on Derek's shoulder to stop him. The werewolf halted and turned, the glow of his eyes stuttering and going out completely.

“What?” Dean asked, head tilting in that way that sort of reminded the angel of Sammy. God, he missed Sammy.... “ _Gabe_. What?”

Gabriel closed his eyes and breathed in and out a couple of times, trying to quell the feeling making its way up his chest. “It means,” he said, “that this little field trip just got more complicated.”

0 o 0 o 0

Dean was so over this cryptic bullshit. Seriously over it. “Which means _what_ , Gabe?” he demanded angrily, tired of being the one having to ask the same damn question over and over. He was half tempted to turn and just keep walking until he found something he could relieve from the burden of its head.

Gabriel shifted, looking tired and put-out. “Derek's gift is trying to lead us to more than one alpha.” He closed his eyes again, shook his head, and swallowed. “Which _means_ we have to find more than one.” He opened his eyes and leveled Dean with a heavy look. “One for each of us, as a matter of fact.”

Dean breathed deeply for a moment, trying not to let his anger control him. It seemed to in this place more than anywhere. “And you didn't know about this?”

“It was...a possibility,” the angel admitted, wincing when Dean's grip on his blade tightened. “Not one that we considered highly-likely.”

“Is there anything else you want to share with the class while we're sharing _possibilities_ , Gabe?” Dean asked through clenched teeth, his vision going black around the edges. “Like maybe the fact that my _son_ is in a _coma_?”

Gabriel looked past Dean's shoulder towards Derek, but Dean shifted so that the werewolf wasn't in his line of sight. “We didn't want you to be distracted,” the angel tried to explain.

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head and raising his blade to point at the angel. “You wanted to hide all the facts. Like you always do. Like you always _have_.”

“I'm not the Trickster anymore, Dean,” Gabriel said with exasperation, eyeing the blade warily.

“Once a Trickster,” Dean sneered.

“Mr. Winchester,” Derek said carefully from behind him, and he saw Gabe shake his head at the werewolf before Dean turned to face him, satisfied with the uncertain look he found there. “It wasn't his idea.”

“Derek,” Gabriel said in warning, but Dean only raised an eyebrow, indicating he should continue.

Derek stole a look at the angel before taking a breath. “It was Castiel.” 

Dean clenched his teeth until the muscles in his jaw ached and the darkness around his vision cleared, turning to look at Gabe over his shoulder and confirm what Derek had told him. The angel didn't say anything, but the less-than-happy scowl on his face said plenty.

“He just wanted you to concentrate on getting home,” Derek continued, “not worrying and possibly getting yourself killed.”

Dean breathed through his nose until his heart rate lowered. “You good?” he asked the angel, and Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Okay.” He turned back to Derek. “Let's keep going.”

0 o 0 o 0

Scott felt the hair on his arms stand up on end as he stared at the house across the street from the Winchester porch. It was dark

“Is that the new kid's house?” Isaac asked from behind him, moving forward until their shoulders bumped.

Scott sighed and nodded. “There's something...weird about it. I don't know what it is, but it's bugging me.”

“No one's seen him at school,” the other teen said, crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the wooden banister surrounding the porch. “Boyd and Erica waited outside Stiles' chemistry class today. He never showed.”

This made Scott frown and turn his head slightly. “He brought Stiles' chem homework the other day but hasn't been by since then.”

“You think he's behind this?” Isaac asked, gaze shifting from the house to their temporary fearless leader. Honestly, who else was supposed to take charge while both Derek and Stiles were...out of commission? 

“I think,” Scott started slowly, frown deepening as he glared at the house, “that there's something bigger coming.”

Isaac swallowed hard and straightened. “Coming for what?”

Scott's gaze finally found the other teen's, his eyes glowing a dangerous yellow and his fingernails sharpening. “For _who_ ,” he corrected, a low growl pushing its way from the depths of his throat.

A sudden scream from inside the Winchester home had them both stiffening before racing to the door and tearing inside the entryway. Stiles' uncle was already at the top of the stairs, running towards the teen's room. 

Because, of course, the screams belonged to Stiles. They were awful and raw and made the werewolves' ears hurt. And the scene in Stiles' room was no better. 

Stiles was thrashing, Castiel and Sam doing their best to keep him from clawing at himself. The teen's fingernails were red and torn, the shirt he was wearing ripped and tattered at the spot just over his heart. His chest sported ugly, deep scratches that were releasing a constant trickle of blood. 

“Can you...” Sam said loudly over the screaming, looking at Castiel desperately.

The angel returned the look with a grim one of his own, shaking his head. “I've tried. There's something blocking his conscious. I can't make him stop.”

Stiles, suddenly, drew in an agonizing breath, releasing a high-pitched keen that contorted into pained sobbing and finally—finally—petered off into hiccoughed whimpers. 

The sound left Scott and Isaac shaking, their sensitive ears ringing with it long after it was gone. No one on earth should have been able to make that noise. 

It was...horrifying. 

Castiel was staring at his son with wide eyes, tears falling as he blinked rapidly and fell beside the bed to clutch Stiles' hand tightly to his chest. Sam reached forward and ran a shaking hand through the teen's hair before carefully peeling back the tattered material of Stiles' shirt and inspecting the self-inflicted wound.

He chanced a glance at the angel and whispered, “Can you...”

Castiel closed his eyes, new tears falling with the act, and shook his head sadly as he began to rock slowly back and forth. “I can't,” he said hoarsely, as if he had been the one yelling, and kissing the knuckles of his son's hand. “I can't do anything for him. I'm useless. I can't—” 

“Hey,” Sam said quietly, grasping the angel's shoulder firmly and shaking once. “Don't do that. You're doing everything you can, Cas. You're here. That's what matters.” He waited until the other man nodded then straightened and turned towards the door, noticing the two young teens standing in the hallway. “We need a first aid kit,” he said slowly, looking between the two to make sure they absorbed the words. 

Scott was the first to nod, breaking his gaze away from Stiles and taking a step back. “I know where one is.” He started down the hall towards the bathroom, where he knew a rarely-used first aid kit lay under the sink collecting dust.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek woke to pain, searing and unbearable.

He rose up on one elbow, staring into the dwindling fire for a moment before clutching at his chest and turning until his forehead was pressed into the dirt. 

“Hey,” Dean said from across the small camp they'd made for the night, “you all right?”

Derek breathed in dirt and smoke, coughing and shaking his head as the pain worsened. He heard scuffling and Dean's deep voice telling Gabriel to wake up, and then there were hands on him, turning him over and uncurling his fingers from the fabric of his shirt. 

“What's wrong?” Gabriel asked him as he leaned into his line of sight. His voice was muffled. 

Derek's head was pounding. “I don't...Ah! M-My chest! It hurts.” He dragged in a labored breath, his throat closing around the air and trying to keep it from being pulled into his lungs. He tried to grab at the place that was emanating pain again, but someone clamped their fingers around his wrist tightly and held him down. He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together to keep from screaming out loud, but the sound still tore from his throat nonetheless.

“Shit, Gabe, what the hell is this?” Dean ground out from somewhere to Derek's left. He must have been the one holding the werewolf down.

“Just gimme a minute,” Gabriel snapped, and Derek felt a cool hand slip beneath the collar of his shirt, rest over his heart. The pain subsided slightly, and Derek stopped writhing enough for Dean to loosen his grip. “Shit.”

Derek's gaze swiveled in the angel's direction, hearing both himself and Dean ask, “What?” at the same time, though his was more of a gurgle then an actual word.

Gabriel sighed exhaustedly and removed his hand—and the relief with it. Derek felt the pain full-force again and groaned, clenching his hands so tightly that his sharpened fingernails dug rivets into his palms. 

“Stiles is in trouble,” the angel said, concern shaking in his voice. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles frowned. He was getting seriously fed up with these scare tactics. They weren't even scaring him...mostly. “My dads are the strongest hunters in the existence of ever. There are friggin' gospels written about them. And you think Purgatory is somehow going to be the one thing that takes them down?” The teen released a short, sharp laugh. 

“Everyone's brought down by something,” Karsen said, leaning forward as his gaze flickered down to the teen's lips.

Stiles shifted and turned his face away, staring at his shoes. “Are you what brings me down?”

“Oh, no, Stiles,” the other man said softly, rising from the bed and falling to his knees in front of Stiles, hands hovering just over the teen's own. “I could never, not in all of the time left on this earth, take down someone as strong as you.” Stiles rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to tell the man to fuck off with his ass kissing, but Karsen kept going. “Only one person exists in this whole world that can—that will—destroy you.” Karsen did take his hands, then, gently. They were warm. And Stiles was so cold. And so tired. “Derek Hale is your downfall, Stiles. You must see that. You've felt it.”

“That was you,” Stiles protested, though it was weak.

“No.” Karsen shook his head. “I only saw what was inside you, made those feelings known. You've known all along that you shouldn't be with him.” He rose from the ground slowly, one hand moving to Stiles' shoulder and pressing him back onto the bed. “You need someone who understands how powerful you are.” He pressed himself on top of the teen, settling between Stiles' legs. “Who will worship you.” Fingers finding the hem of the teen's shirt, Karsen began to shove the material up until Stiles' stomach was exposed. He leaned down, pressing kisses into the skin and delving his tongue into the young man's navel. Stiles began to shake, and Karsen sighed into the skin just above the waistline of his jeans. “I love you, Stiles.”

Stiles closed his eyes as tears built up behind them. It wasn't true. It wasn't true. “I love Derek,” he said, his voice breaking on the name. “I love...Derek.”

Karsen sat up slowly, fingers still exploring the plains of his stomach. “I can fix that,” he whispered, leaning down and breathing into the teen's ear. “Tell me you want me to help you forget.”

Stiles jerked his head from side to side. “No,” he said, arching as Karsen dug his fingernails into his sides. 

“Tell me you want me to take away the pain,” Karsen continued, and Stiles whimpered.

“No,” he repeated.

“Tell me you want me.”

Stiles gasped. That voice wasn't Karsen's. His eyes snapped open, and what he saw made his heart ache. 

It was Derek, smiling down at him gently and pressing him into his mattress like he'd done so many times. The relief that washed over Stiles drowned out the voice in his head screaming _Wait!_

“Tell me,” Derek said, moving against the teen as his mouth hovered a mere breath above Stiles'. “Tell me you want me.”

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded, biting his lower lip and letting his head fall back as their hips clashed again.

“Tell me,” Derek growled, biting into the muscle between his shoulder and his neck.

Stiles groaned. “I want you,” he said quickly, knowing the words were wrong as soon as they left his mouth but unable to stop them or the ones that followed. “I want you. I want you.” He looked down into familiar green eyes and grabbed the dark hair at the nape of Derek's neck. “Only you.” Derek surged forward and kissed him, salt from Stiles' tears mixing with the warm wet of his tongue. 

And when he pulled away...it wasn't Derek anymore.

Karsen was smiling down at him triumphantly. “I knew you did.” 

Before Stiles could do anything, Karsen had a hand on his chest, fingernails digging into the skin just above his heart. “What—” the teen started to ask but was cut off as pain beyond anything he'd ever felt ripped through the point where Karsen's hand rested.

“I'll help you, Stiles,” the man said as the young man gasped, eyes going wide. “I'll help you forget him.”

Stiles dragged a ragged breath into his lungs...

...and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. That should be the last of the major Karsen-on-Stiles action (that I'm aware of...sometimes my fingers add things that I had absolutely no say in adding). Hopefully the next chapter should be up soon! Stay tuned, my friends! You are all so amazing for sticking with me! Thank you!


	6. Cry Again. Fight Again. Home Again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you fighting this, Stiles? It would be so easy just to give in.”
> 
> “It would."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Hello! I am here! And so are you! Look at you taking time out of your day to be here. You are wonderful! Magnificent! I love you. Like, kind of a lot. And I hope you aren't too angry that it's taken so long to get this chapter up...I've been busy unpacking in my NEW STUDIO APARTMENT. WHHAAAAAAT??!!?? I'm so very excited about it. :) And I'm so very excited to tell you that the other reason I've taken so long to write this chapter is because I've been writing ahead!!! So updates should become a little quicker...I hope. 
> 
> You guys really are truly amazing! Thank you for reading my nonsense. :)

Stiles cried, curled in on himself on the not-bed of his not-room in the dark. He felt...empty. Something was gone, missing. It hurt to remember, but he tried anyway.

Dark hair.

And green eyes.

A soft smile.

Derek. 

He was important.

“He's not,” Karsen whispered against his ear, and Stiles flinched as the man pressed against his back and wrapped his arms around him. “It's okay, Stiles. You don't have to think about him ever again.”

“What—” Stiles choked on the word, fisting the comforter beneath him and drawing in a ragged breath. His throat was still sore from screaming. “What did you do?”

Karsen nuzzled the space behind Stiles' ear and breathed in deeply. “I broke your bond,” he said casually, matter-of-factly, as if the act meant nothing.

Stiles wanted to get up, shout, throw punch after punch into the smug man's stupid face. But he couldn't move. 

“Fix it,” Stiles demanded, pressing his face into the bed. “ _Fix_ it.”

“You don't want that,” Karsen insisted, tightening his arms around the teen. 

But Stiles broke the hold, reaching across the bed and grabbing the edge with shaking fingers before weakly pulling himself out of Karsen's grasp. “You don't know what I want,” he ground out through clenched teeth, breathing hard at the exertion. His limbs felt like dead weights, his chest was numb and throbbing. But he had to get away from this man, this Leviathan, that had ruined...everything.

Karsen sighed and rose from the bed, crossing his arms and walking around it with a pensive look on his face. “Why are you fighting this, Stiles? It would be so easy just to give in.”

“It would,” Stiles agreed, closing his eyes and nodding against the bed. 

“Then why are you doing this?” Karsen was in front of him, and when the teen looked up, he found a look of genuine concern on the man's face. Karsen leaned down so that he was at eye level with the younger man. “Why prolong the pain?”

“Because,” Stiles said quietly, quivering as the cold and nothingness began to consume him but contorting his mouth into what he hoped was at least an acceptable smirk, “I'm a Winchester.”

Karsen shook his head, frowning as he reached forward and strung his fingers loosely through Stiles' hair. “You don't know what he'll do,” he whispered, his eyes beginning to water and tears slipping freely down his face. “He'll find you. He'll hurt everyone around you.” He leaned forward, drawing in a shuddering breath. “He'll break you, Stiles. You'll be his, whether you want to be or not.”

Stiles breathed and watched Karsen with wide eyes before swallowing and asking, “Who is he?”

“His name is Azazel,” Karsen said, fear blossoming on his face before he closed his eyes tightly. “The yellow-eyed demon.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek woke with a gasp, gaze fluttering wildly over the tops of trees and the gray sky beyond. He could feel dirt and rocks digging into the small of his back. But it was nothing compared to the pain he felt in his chest. Ache and burn and misery. He could barely breathe with how awful the feeling was. Tears filled his eyes.

“You awake, kid?” He recognized the voice as Dean's, and the ache in him jolted. 

Derek blew out a stream of air and closed his eyes, the tears welling there spilling down into the dirt behind his head. Yes. Yes, he was. And he certainly didn't want to be. “Where's Gabriel?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I'm here,” the angel said to his left, and he squinted as Gabe leaned into his line of vision. “How are you feeling?”

The young man shuddered. “Like I can't breathe.”

“Let's get you up,” Gabe said, fingers worming under his shoulder and tugging until he started to sit up on his own. 

His head spun, and he had to lean forward to keep from throwing up. “Shit,” he whimpered as the pain worsened, his shoulders hunching and shaking. “I can't feel him.” He put a trembling hand over his heart and leaned into the angel as the tears started fresh. “I can't...”

Gabriel sighed sadly and wrapped an arm around him. “I know,” he said, shifting to get more comfortable. “Something's broken your bond with Stiles. It's probably gonna hurt for a while.”

Derek's fingers clenched as he tried to reign in the utter devastation. It only felt worse as the moments ticked by. He couldn't remember feeling happy. He couldn't remember anything but this. He heard the rumble of Dean's voice, words exchanged between the two men, but he wasn't listening—couldn't listen. Couldn't hear anything beyond the rush of loneliness in his head. 

“Derek,” Gabriel said gently, and the werewolf breathed in, deep and shuddering. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said, cringing at the wetness in his voice. “I just...need a minute.”

A pause, and then Gabe squeezed his shoulder. “Okay, bud.”

0 o 0 o 0

Sam finished the ritual and held his breath, standing back from the small circle with familiar objects. He hadn't seen Crowley for a long time. Years, in fact. They'd been on decent terms when they had last parted— _decent_ in the sense that they had allowed one another to live. 

But something in Sam's gut twisted, didn't feel right. 

“Moose,” a familiar, gruff voice said from the dark of Dean and Castiel's basement, and the hunter turned. “You're looking...well.” He said the word as if several had come to mind before he'd settled on that particular one. 

“Crowley,” Sam greeted carefully, fingers flexing at his sides. “You look like shit.” It was meant more as banter than anything, but it still wasn't far from the truth. The demon looked disheveled, tired. 

“I'm surprised it took you this long to summon me,” Crowley said, looking around the space warily. “Nice place you have here.”

“What do you mean you're surprised?” 

The demon glanced up at the ceiling with a wince before stepping out from his dark corner, no doubt looking for demon traps. There weren't any. But Sam was going to keep that to himself for now.

“So you really are that far out of the loop, eh?” Crowley managed a smile and a huff of laughter, but he looked more deranged than amused. “Everyone's looking for you lot.”

“Everyone?” Sam asked. 

“Heaven, hell, and earth itself. Even I've been looking for near a year now.” Sam shifted uncomfortably. Maybe those demon traps wouldn't have been a bad idea. “Don't get your knickers in a twist. It was only to warn you.”

Sam frowned. “About what?” 

“About who's coming.” Crowley looked desperate again. “You bloody Winchesters, stirring up trouble even when you've cut yourselves off from everyone and everything. Living your happy, oblivious lives in familial bliss. Typical.”

“Crowley,” Sam interrupted the man's grumbling. “ _Who_ is coming?”

The demon sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair and shrugging. 

“ _Everyone_.”

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel squeezed Stiles' hand when he heard the basement door open, when two sets of footsteps sounded on the stairs, when Sam appeared in the doorway and looked at him solemnly before stepping aside. And then someone that Castiel hadn't really wanted to see ever again made their way into his son's bedroom. 

“Cas,” the demon greeted with a wary nod. He looked scruffier than the last time the angel had seen him. 

Castiel stood, wanting more than anything to round the bed and put himself between this man and Stiles. But a glance in Sam's direction calmed his nerves somewhat when the hunter nodded slightly and stepped between Crowley and Stiles for him. 

“Is this the little whippersnapper?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised as he looked Stiles' unconscious body up and down, and Castiel tensed. “Amazing. All this trouble over some skinny little teenager.”

“Trouble?” the angel asked, drawing Stiles' hand closer and placing his other hand on his son's shoulder. 

Sam sighed, hands gravitating to his hips in a way that Castiel knew meant he wouldn't like what came next. “We have a problem.” His gaze flicked down to Stiles for just a second. “We should talk.” 

Castiel swallowed, calling, “Scott,” without taking his eyes from Sam's. The front door opened and closed downstairs, and within seconds, Stiles' best friend was standing in the doorway, eyeing Crowley suspiciously. “I need you to sit with Stiles, please.”

“Sure,” the young man said, giving the demon a wide berth and taking Castiel's place as he moved towards the door. 

“We'll be right downstairs,” the angel said, closing the door behind them as he ushered the other two men out. 

“Consorting with werewolves now?” Crowley asked as they made their way down the stairs and into the living room. “Teenage werewolves, no less. My, how the mighty have—” 

“What do you know about my son?” Castiel demanded dangerously, practically crowding the demon against the couch. 

Crowley had the decency to look perturbed at his tone of voice, which made Castiel...satisfied. Fallen or not, it was still good to know he was intimidating. 

“Easy now, Wingless,” the demon said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and making himself small. “I've come to cooperate, which is more than I can say for the rest of the supernatural population.” 

The front door opened and closed again, Isaac stepping into the room and looming. “You all right, Mr. Winchester?”

“Surrounded by children,” Crowley huffed, giving the werewolf a once-over. “You've certainly gotten yourselves nice and cozy.” He rolled his eyes as Isaac bared his teeth, crossing his legs and linking his fingers together in his lap. “Your son is a hot commodity these days, gents. Everyone wants him. And I assume the only thing keeping him hidden is your angel mojo.”

Castiel's lips pinched together. It wasn't, actually. They'd taken necessary precautions, of course; made sure they could keep track of Stiles if they ever needed to find him. And the house was shielded almost as securely as the Men of Letters bunker. But Castiel had little to do with the fact that angels and demons weren't able to intrude on their happily ever after. 

It was simply...Beacon Hills.

Castiel had chosen it for a reason. The pull to this place had been strong, and when he'd realized the sheer power this small town possessed, he'd just let it surround them. He hadn't fought it. And, yes, perhaps he'd nudged Dean's influence a bit when they'd discussed living there. Dean had been skeptical at first, still full of the itch to be out there saving the world from the terrors it didn't know.

But Dean was happy. And Castiel was happy. They were protected.

“Why?” Sam asked when Castiel stayed silent. “What's so special about Stiles?”

“You can't sense any of that?” Crowley pointed upward and twirled his finger to indicate upstairs—Stiles. “Your kid's got more power than I've ever felt before. He's riddled with the stuff.”

Castiel stiffened. Of course he knew. Stiles had radiated power from the moment they had found him as an infant. And the angel had been doing his damnedest to keep anyone from finding out, including Stiles himself. He'd bound his son's power when he was just a boy, after several... _instances_ had occurred. Nothing large—a few floating toys and some disappearing cookies. But Castiel could feel the power growing, branching out. It was dark. And, fearing for his son and his newly settled family, he had done what needed to be done.

Stiles was his son. Dean was his husband. No one was going to take that away from him.

“Yes,” Castiel admitted, swallowing hard under the scrutiny he was receiving—from Sam, especially. “Stiles has power. But he doesn't use it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isaac shift from foot to foot with unease. “Often,” the angel clarified. He gave the young werewolf a firm look, and Isaac quickly made his way back outside, no doubt to listen in on the conversation with the other teenagers milling about the house. 

Castiel took a moment to share a look with Sam, who looked confused and a little frustrated at being out of the loop, apparently. The angel did his best to convey a promise to speak with him later through just his gaze, feeling relief when Sam merely crossed his arms and nodded towards Crowley.

“ _Who_ is coming after Stiles?” he asked firmly.

“Specifically?” Crowly asked tiredly, eyes flashing with something close to fear. “Azazel.”

Castiel and Sam stayed quiet for a long moment before the angel dared speak.

“Bullshit.”

Crowley's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “I like the new you, Cassie. It's refreshing.”

“My husband killed Azazel,” Castiel continued, having to swallow the urge to start yelling. He'd done enough of that lately. 

“And where is that broody husband of yours?” the demon asked, mouth only half quirking. This was not the Crowley they were used to. Not by a long shot. “Figured he'd be the one rolling out the red carpet for my arrival.”

“What does Azazel have to do with Stiles?” Sam asked instead.

“Word has it the kid has power enough to literally raise hell on earth,” Crowley explained carefully, giving the two a meaningful look. 

Castiel didn't even blink. “So does Azazel.”

“Oh, but your boy is special.” Crowley did smile then, the lecherous kind that made most people's skin crawl. Not Castiel. No, the smile only served to fuel his anger. That was his son that put that disgusting smile there. “So special, in fact, that he's gotten the attention of one of the most powerful demons to ever walk this damn planet.” His eyes narrowed at the angel suddenly, as if in suspicion. “Funny that he just so happened to end up in the hands of a hunter and an angel.”

Castiel kept his face stoic. “Does he know where Stiles is?”

Crowley snorted and shifted on the couch. “Of course he does. He's the only one, though. Been keeping it to himself for some time, now. Causing quite a stir amongst the brethren, you can imagine.”

“Why?” Sam's nostrils flared as he undoubtedly kept his own emotions in check. Castiel could see the questions flickering behind his eyes—questions not for the demon squirming on the couch in front of them but for the angel at his side. “What's keeping him from taking Stiles?”

“Hell if I know,” Crowley said, rubbing at his forehead nervously. “But he's pushed everyone out of hell, tracking down demons and converting them or—” He huffed and slouched into the cushions. “Well, he isn't having tea parties.”

“Do you know anything about a Leviathan being sent to Beacon Hills?” Castiel asked, ignoring the sidelong looks he was receiving from his brother-in-law.

“A Leviathan? Here?” Crowley sat up straighter and looked around the room as if it might be sitting across from him.

“Down the street, actually,” Sam said with little patience in his tone. “You said you came to warn us. What exactly are you warning us about?”

Crowley looked between the two in exasperation. “I already did. Azazel is alive. He's coming for your son. The end. Consider yourselves warned.”

“We need more,” Castiel said firmly, expanding his presence as much as he could. “We need to kill the Leviathan.”

“Yeah. Fine. Great. Here.” Crowley closed his fingers into a fist, and when he opened them again, there was a small vial filled with red liquid resting on his palm. “Take it. It's yours. Do whatever you want with it.” He thrust it into Castiel's hand and stood. “I've been here too long already.”

Castiel frowned, his mind churning. “Crowley,” he said before he could stop himself. The demon looked at him warily, glancing between him and Sam several times before narrowing his eyes and waiting for the angel to continue. “I need a different favor.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed like he was being inconvenienced. But he couldn't hide the relief in his eyes. Castiel suspected that the demon actually felt safe here in the Winchester's home—more than he had felt for a long while, at least. “And what's that?”

Sam looked at him, too, his muscles tensing as if he already knew what he was going to ask.

The angel sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I want to introduce you to my son.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek stopped abruptly, and Gabriel resisted the urge to voice his relief. It'd been another few grueling hours of trudging through these God-awful woods. The trees were starting to blend together, and a headache was brewing at the base of the angel's skull.

“What's wrong?” Dean's gruff voice asked from behind them both. “Do we need to rest again?” His tone indicated he was more than okay with the idea. He was shifting on his feet like they were starting to hurt. And Gabriel's labored breathing probably wasn't helping exude the powerful archangel vibe he usually put out.

“No,” Derek said absently, searching the area and furrowing his eyebrows. Leaves littered the ashen grass. It definitely didn't look any different than any place they had seen thus far. The stillness was unnerving, though. No wind. No smells. Nothing to indicate anyone was around them at all. “We're here.”

Dean stepped in front of him, scanning the area himself. “You sure?”

Derek shrugged. “Yeah.” He looked tired.

Dean sighed in frustration and turned. “Gabe?”

The angel frowned and glanced around skeptically. “Why do you think this is the place?” he asked.

“The line is gone.”

Gabriel pursed his lips. “Maybe you're just tired. We can rest and start again later.”

Derek was shaking his head before the angel even finished talking. “No, it's gone. The line ended. There's no more to follow.”

Gabriel shared a look with Dean. “That doesn't make sense. If the line ended, then there should be someone—” 

Derek stiffened as claws, suddenly, curled around his neck.

“What makes you think someone isn't here already?” a voice rumbled behind him.

Great. An alpha with a taste for awful villain one-liners. Exactly what they needed.

“That's enough of that,” Gabriel huffed impatiently, raising a hand and snapping his fingers. The hand curled around Derek's neck released its hold quickly, as if it were burned, and there was a low, angry growl as the figure stepped away from the young werewolf. 

It was a woman no taller than Gabriel himself, her skin dark and smooth and her long hair a tangle of tiny braids that swayed viciously as she stumbled away from them. She bared her teeth at Gabriel, her eyes glowing a deep red. 

Werewolf. 

The angel supposed they were more common than other supernatural alphas, and it was only fitting, as their guide to each alpha happened to be a werewolf himself. Maybe he could only seek out other werewolves. Gabriel hadn't had time to give it much thought.

The woman turned to run, but Gabriel merely snapped his fingers again, and she fell backwards, scattering leaves in her wake. She growled again as she sat up, centering a hard glare on the angel and slamming her fists into the ground petulantly. She was probably as young as she looked, then. 

“Hey!” Gabriel said firmly, putting as much power as he could behind the word. He had to admit, he didn't have much left, and what little he had been able to rebuild was slowly leaking back out as he attempted to keep the she-wolf from escaping. “Listen up, Buttercup. We're not here to hurt you.” The words did not seem to placate her mood at all, and she thrashed harder against the ground, trying to stand. Gabriel rolled his eyes, not bothering with the finger-snapping this time—it was all for show, anyway—and watching as the girl was thrown back onto the ground. “I can do this all day.” He really couldn't. But she didn't need to know that.

Her growling began to abate, but her glare was still red and angry, and she narrowed her eyes at the angel. “What do you want?” she asked, voice low and threatening.

Gabriel stepped forward as boldly as his tired body allowed him to, expending more power as he squatted down beside her and smirking as she cowered. “You're an Alpha, kid. And you can clearly tell we don't belong here. What the hell do you think we want?”

Her glare faltered a bit, and her eyes lost their red hue. She chanced a glance at both Derek and Dean, who were slowly closing in on either side. “I...” she started uncertainly, swallowing hard and looking back to Gabriel. “I can only send one of you back.”

“We know,” Gabriel said, his tone a bit more soothing than it had been. He eased his power back just a bit, relieved at the feeling. 

“And I have to take something,” she said quickly, tensing as if the information might make them angry.

“We know that, too.” The angel stood, offering the girl a hand. She looked back and forth between his hand and his face for a moment before sliding her fingers into his and pulling herself up to her feet. 

The contact between them was fleeting, but Gabriel was able to catch glimpses of the girl's life. Born wolf. Mother, father, and older brother murdered when she was only twelve—too young for the responsibilities of an Alpha. She'd run for a few years, living in shelters and forests and basically scrounging for a living until a band of hunters had found her. They'd kept her alive for days. Her death, and the days leading up to it, hadn't been pretty. It was sad that people could be as cruel as they were. But that was why Gabriel had lost so much faith in humanity in the first place.

Until he'd met the Winchesters, of course.

A silence stretched around them that had the girl shifting anxiously on her feet. “Which one of you am I sending back?”

“Him.” Both Gabriel and Dean spoke at the same time, pointing at one another and giving each other similarly exasperated looks.

“Dean.”

“Gabe.”

The angel shook his head. “You're the reason we're here. To get you out of here.”

“No, _Cas_ is the reason you're here,” the hunter argued, the grip on his blade tightening and making the girl between them tense. “He threw you in here knowing what it would do to you, and now I'm sending you out before you get worse.”

“I'm fine.” 

He wasn't.

“You're not.” 

It was true.

Gabriel sighed. “I will be.” He swallowed and tried a grin, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace. “And Cas will kill me if I'm the first one to come back. It's gotta be you, Dean-O.”

“You won't get far without someone who knows this place.” Dean's eyes were hard, determined. But Gabriel could sense the want in his bones. He wanted home. He wanted family. He wanted Cas.

“I've got Derek,” Gabriel said gently. “He knows where we need to go. We'll be back before you know it.” He swallowed, nodding his head as Dean was shaking his. “You want this, Dean. Go home.”

Dean held out for another moment before his shoulders slumped and he took on a defeated look. It was the first time since Gabriel and Derek had appeared in Purgatory that the hunter looked completely defenseless. Dean turned to the girl. “What do you need?”

The she-wolf squared her shoulders and stepped towards Dean, gaze locking onto the hunter's fiercely before she huffed and stepped back, looking almost regretful. “Memories,” she said quietly, and Dean tensed. “Of your father.”

The hunter swallowed. “Which ones?”

Eyebrows furrowing, the girl said, “All of them.”

Dean glanced over at Gabriel. “Won't that...change me? Who I am now?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to respond, but the girl was already shaking her head. “No,” she said matter-of-factly. “You've already established who you are...Dean.” She said the name tentatively, like she hadn't said a name for a long while. “It'll be like something you've forgotten, there on the edge of your mind but out of reach. He will be familiar...but no longer a part of your past.”

Dean didn't look happy. “And there's nothing else you can take besides that?” he asked, no glint of hope in his eyes. He knew what the answer would be.

“No,” the girl said, and Dean nodded.

“Fine.” The hunter rolled his shoulders. “Let's get this over with.”

The girl hesitantly stepped forward again, close enough to place her hands on Dean. One hand rested on his chest, the other on his shoulder. Dean tensed, giving Gabe a wary look before setting his gaze on Derek.

“You get him home,” the hunter demanded, gesturing to Gabriel then pointing a finger at Derek and centering a determined look in his direction. “Then you get yourself home. Understood?”

Derek's eyebrows rose high on his forehead, but he managed a nod and a “Yes, Sir.” 

Dean nodded with satisfaction, looking down at the girl and saying, “Alright.” A quiet moment passed, and then the girl drew in a sharp breath and shoved Dean backwards. Before the hunter even had time to fully catch himself...he had disappeared.

Gabriel released a pent-up breath, rubbing a hand through his hair tiredly. “One down,” he murmured to himself, looking at the empty space that Dean had been in then to Derek. “You ready to keep going, kiddo?”

Derek shook himself of the awe that was clear on his face and focused on the angel. “Yeah. Okay.”

With a nod, Gabriel turned to the she-wolf, who was staring at them both with mixed emotions on her face. “Thanks,” he offered simply, not really sure if there was much else to say. He started towards Derek, but the girl took a step in his direction. 

“My name's Ana,” she blurted, lips tightening after the words like she shouldn't have said them.

Gabriel paused, nodding slightly. “This is Derek,” he said with a gesture towards the other werewolf. “I'm Gabriel.” _And I'm really, really not in the mood to be making friends right now_ , he thought tiredly.

Ana's hand fluttered to the necklace that was clinging to her chest. “Like the archangel?” she asked quietly, shifting from foot to foot. She seemed nervous—not of them; maybe of being alone. It didn't seem like she had anyone in Purgatory. 

Gabriel pursed his lips, giving the necklace a once-over. It was a pendant. _His_ pendant, actually. _Saint Gabriel the Archangel_. But he hadn't been that in a long time. He looked back up into the girl's wide, hopeful eyes as she clutched at the silly thing. How many times had she prayed to him? Asked him to help her? Save her? Bring her family back? Make the pain go away?

Guilt settled in the angel's gut, and he sighed, plastering a small smile on his face. “Yeah,” he said, his voice no more than a rasp. “Like the archangel.”

0 o 0 o 0

“This is a bad idea,” Sam said, pacing just beyond the foot of Stiles' bed as Crowley sat on the edge next to the teen. His gut twisted just seeing the demon that close to his nephew. “Cas—” 

“The block is in place for us, but the Leviathan may not have thought to block demons,” Castiel said absently, hovering over Crowley and sighing heavily. “If you're able to reach him—”

“Hugs and kisses all around,” Crowley interrupted, rolling his eyes and looking over his shoulder at the angel somewhat indignantly. “I got it the first time around, Cassie. I'll give him your message. Then I'm out.”

Castiel nodded, glancing at Sam once before taking a breath and holding it. Sam crossed his arms and watched as Crowley reached forward, fingers from both hands settling at Stiles' temples, and closed his eyes. There were several tense moments before the demon opened his eyes again, huffing and raising his eyebrows.

“Well then,” he said, his tone curious.

“What is it?” Castiel asked quickly.

Crowley looked over his shoulder again, shrugging as he said, “Busy signal.”

Sam rolled his eyes and turned away. “Figures.”

“I don't understand,” the angel said, his tone climbing into near-desperation. 

“Someone else has your boy's line all tied up at the moment,” Crowley explained, standing from the bed and shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn coat. He looked as if he were trying to stay casual, but the glance he offered the prone teen said otherwise. As in, he looked scared as fuck. 

Which meant the Winchesters, strong as they were, should probably also be scared as fuck.

Fuck...

“Someone's in his head?” Sam asked, the pit of his stomach dropping further. Stiles could be screaming for help, undergoing the worst kinds of torture, and they would never know. Hadn't known. Someone had been in Stiles' head all along, and they'd been sitting by his bedside letting it happen. Sam felt like he might be sick. 

Crowley shrugged again. “Can't say I didn't try.” And without so much as a fond farewell, the demon disappeared. 

Sam ran his hands through his hair and turned, pacing the small space again a few times before whipping around and facing the angel with a determined scowl. “Cas. You need to start talking now.”

Castiel swallowed hard and nodded, his mouth opening to say something. But the words didn't have time to leave his tongue. A look crossed his face like he'd been punched in the gut—eyes wide, breath caught. And with a single word, Sam understood why.

“ _Dean_.”

0 o 0 o 0

Dean clenched his eyes shut as he stumbled backwards...and onto a green lawn. The blade in his hand dropped to the ground as he doubled over in an attempt to bring air back into his lungs. Damn, but that girl had had a hell of a shove. His gut twisted at the thought of Purgatory—of Gabriel and Derek still trapped there. 

They would make it out. Dean was certain of that. 

A sudden growl had him dropping to one knee, fingers instantly seeking out his blade, but as his gaze took in the front of the house— _his_ house—the growl petered off into a noise of confusion. 

“Mr. Winchester?” 

Dean breathed a little easier as the person approached. “Scott,” he said, coughing a few more times as he stood, gaze skimming over the house again. He couldn't stop taking in all the little details...

There was a baseball in the topmost gutter that clogged up water and forced a small waterfall to drown the porch when it rained.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked, eyeing the blade warily. 

The window trim on the first floor of the house was a little crooked—Dean had argued with Cas about it several times, the angel unable to see the obvious flaw that Dean swore up and down was there and could never get just right enough to make it even.

“I'm fine,” the hunter said huskily, swallowing hard on a dry throat. “How have things been?”

The garden to the left of the porch—Cas's garden—looked overgrown, which was mildly upsetting. Cas always took care of that damn garden, made it a point to plant flowers that attracted honey bees. He loved honey bees.

Scott blew a quick stream of air past his lips. “Long version or the short version?”

The garage's paint was flaking. He'd have to head down to the hardware store soon...or did they still have paint left from the last time they'd re-done it?

“Let's stick with the short version for now,” Dean replied absently.

The grass wasn't being cut right—alternative rows, remembering which way the mower went so that the direction could be switched up the next time the lawn needed mowing. Probably one of these kids—Stiles' furry friends—trying to do Cas a favor while the hunter was...gone.

Dean had been _gone_. For _months_. 

Scott's eyebrows furrowed, and he sighed with a significant amount of teenage frustration. “Not good.”

Dean's gaze finally settled back on the teen, and he couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped him at the blunt words. “Not good,” he repeated, shaking his head and starting towards the house. “What's new?”

Scott turned and walked with him. “Uh, Mr. Winchester, I think you should know—”

“Stiles is in a coma,” Dean said, ascending the porch stairs and reaching out to open the screen door. “Got the highlights from Derek.” He didn't mean to sound so flippant about the situation. He knew it was bad—really, really bad—but he couldn't help trying to stuff the panic and paternal worry into his gut and hold it there. He couldn't afford those feelings, not when so much was going to shit. He opened the front door and stepped through, exhaling and letting his shoulders drop in relief. 

“There's a Leviathan living down the street,” Scott said conversationally, shrugging when Dean's gaze fell on him again. 

The hunter knew he should be more concerned about that—and he probably would be later. But at the moment, he just...wasn't. “Figures,” he murmured. 

There were heavy footfalls from upstairs, a door opening quickly, and then Cas was at the top of the staircase. Wide, beautiful, blue eyes stared down at him in shock and relief and anxiety. 

“Dean.” The angel didn't even bother taking the stairs—one second he was looking over the banister, and the next he was right in front of Dean, arms coming around him like Cas was afraid he wasn't real. 

Dean wrapped his arms around his husband, chin resting on top of Cas' head amidst the tousled, dark hair. The angel was shaking, face buried in Dean's chest and tears soaking into the dirty jacket the hunter had entered Purgatory with several months ago. “Shh,” he comforted, rubbing circles into his husband's back. “It's okay, Cas. I gotcha. I'm here. It's gonna be okay.”

Cas shook his head vehemently, hiccoughed sobs muffled. He didn't say anything.

Dean held him for a long moment, barely registering the front door opening and closing as Scott returned to patrolling around the house. He let Cas cry and dig sharp fingernails into his sides and mutter about how stupid the hunter had been to stay behind on his own. And when Cas finally lifted his head, pressing his lips to Dean's in a soft, sweet kiss, Dean felt the rest of his guilt and worry slip away. 

He sighed with content and smiled, fingers idly running through his husband's unruly hair. “You wanna take me to him?”

Cas sniffed and stood back, wiping his face on the sleeve of his shirt before offering his hand and starting up the stairs when Dean easily slipped his fingers in between the angel's and followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEAN IS HOME!!!!!! :D :D :D :D :D
> 
> Also SEMI-HELPFUL CROWLEY!!!!! :D :D :D :D


	7. A Not-So-Happy Reunion. A Barely-Concealed Distrust. A Heart-Breaking Realization.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This place...This darkness in you will consume your soul. You will cease to exist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! Another update! Within the same month! What is the world coming to??? 
> 
> Guys, you are so awesome. Thank you so much for your reviews and your kudos and just...you. Thank you for YOU!! You make me so very happy. :) 
> 
> This one might be a little shorter, which is why the update is so soon, but I do hope it satisfies. I have a particularly favorite scene in this one. I'll let you decide which one it is. ;)
> 
> Alsooo, I got a KITTEN!!! His name is Jack, and he's 10 weeks old, and he likes to hide in the trundle beneath my daybed. :/ He's the very first animal I've had that's mine (all our other pets were family pets), so I might be a little out of my league with this, but if anyone has any suggestions or tips, I'm more than open! He's very affectionate, and not very playful. He'd rather rub against the string I wave at him then actually attack it. He doesn't eat too much (he's barely gone through two bowls of food since I brought him home a week ago). And he meows like crazy if I'm not paying attention to him. He's so small and so sweet, and I hate going to work and leaving him alone. And I love him. I should mention that. I love him dearly, dearly, dearly.
> 
> Anyway, my friends, read on! :D

Dean held his breath as Cas led him down the hallway to Stiles' room. His stomach churned. Things were starting to settle in, become more real. He was home. Cas was holding his hand. And in the room at the end of the hall, his son was in a coma. 

His footsteps felt heavy, though his muddy boots barely made noise on the thick carpet. Just before they reached the door, Sam stepped into the hall, his eyes wide and his breath stuttered.

“Dean,” he said, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around him. 

Cas released his hand, allowing him to hold his brother as tightly as he had the night their house had burned to the ground. He'd held him just as fiercely as often and as many times as his no-chick-flick rule allowed since then. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he breathed, closing his eyes and letting the familiar hold sink into his muscles, his bones. It was his strongest and eternal constant. Cas and Stiles were his everything, of course, but Sammy was his beginning. His forever. His heaven. 

Sam hunched and buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck, and the elder Winchester felt the tears slide against his skin and soak into his shirt. “This is really starting to be a bad habit.”

They both laughed and pulled apart, wiping at their eyes and swallowing their emotion away. Cas' hand found his again, and Dean's gaze fell on the partially open door of Stiles' room. He took another breath and squeezed the hand in his. 

“So,” he said, his voice breaking on the single word, and he had to swallow. “He's, uh...”

Sam sighed and nodded, wiping his face one last time and stepping to the side. Dean walked past him, pushing the door open. 

Immediately, his stomach plummeted. He'd walked into this room hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. There was always life in this room. Books and papers and homework and chaos and life. The life of a teenager who was far too young to be lying that still.

He stopped just inside the room, blinking away the sting behind his eyes. The air was stale, though the windows were open and a breeze made the curtains flutter. Stiles looked...

“He's alive,” Cas assured him, voice quiet and shivering. His fingers gripped Dean's so tightly he thought they might fall off. 

“Barely,” he heard Sam mutter behind him. 

Dean took a deep breath and walked forward, releasing his husband's hand and sitting on the bed beside his prone son. “Hey, Bud,” he said softly, fingers brushing the bangs from the teen's forehead. A lump filled his throat, and he had to swallow to breathe again. Stiles was pale, clammy. His breathing was erratic, and his eyebrows were drawn together like he was having a nightmare. “I'm sorry.” The tears loosed from his eyes then, spilling down his cheeks and gathering below his chin. He didn't bother wiping them away. “I'm so sorry, Stiles.”

He leaned forward, face buried in his son's chest as the sobs shook him. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles gasped when he heard his pop's voice. He started crying when his pop apologized. And when the older man's sobs filled his small room, he screamed. Because why should his pop apologize to him? Why should he feel sorry for an ungrateful kid who told him he hated him?

The teen shoved at the nightstand beside his bed. He swept the laptop and papers off the desk and pushed it over. He tugged at the bookshelf until it toppled and the books and action figures and comics scattered across the floor. He yelled and kicked and threw himself against the darkness until his body ached and his throat was sore.

“Stiles, is this really necess—”

Stiles didn't even think. As soon as he heard Karsen's voice, he shoved his hands out into the air, feeling the power explode from his fingertips. Karsen was flung across the room, sprawling into the mess Stiles had made of the place. 

“Get out!” Stiles screeched, fingers snaking into his hair and tugging wildly. “Just get the fuck out of my head!”

Karsen took a moment to stand, wiping blood from his mouth and giving the teen a hard look. “The only reason I'm here is because you let me in!” he snarled. “You want this. No matter what you're telling yourself, you do.”

“I am done with this bullshit!” Stiles shouted, pacing the carpet as best he could between the scattered books. “I am done being held captive by some asshole who thinks we're going to ride off into the fucking sunset together! Like, are you freaking kidding me?” He turned and looked at Karsen, part of him wanting to feel sorry for the hurt look on the other man's face, but the other part of him really just not giving two shits. This guy kidnapped him. Fuck that. There would be no Stockholm Syndrome here.

Karsen was a freak. Stiles was in love with Derek.

End of story.

“I think you just need some time—” 

“No,” Stiles said firmly. “Karsen, you need to let me go or kill me. Because this—” He gestured between them. “—is never going to happen. Ever.”

Karsen took a step back like he'd been slapped. “Azazel...won't be pleased.”

Stiles shrugged, huffing with more than a little frustration. “You know what? Bring it on. Let him throw whatever he's got at me. I've got a family who loves me. I've got friends who support me. I've got a boyfriend who'll kick your ass three weeks from Sunday. And I guarantee that they'll all stand against you and anyone else who comes for me.” Stiles squared his shoulders and pinned Karsen with the best Winchester glare he could muster. “What have you got?”

Karsen stood stunned for just a moment, his eyes glazed over with thought. “Very riveting,” he said finally, his voice smaller than it usually was. “But your friends and family can't help you here.” He took a steadying breath and stepped towards Stiles. “And if that's how you really feel, Stiles, then I'll go.” He swallowed, looking nervous again. “But I can't come back. You'll be stuck here. Alone.”

“Until I die. Yeah, I get it,” Stiles said, arms crossing. 

“Until you disappear,” Karsen corrected, looking for just a moment uncertain of what he'd done. “This place...This darkness in you will consume your soul. You will cease to exist.”

Stiles' stomach dropped. “You mean I can't be brought back. When I die.”

Karsen shook his head. “No one can get to you.”

“Azazel?”

“Not even him.”

Stiles breathed a sigh and nodded. “Yeah. I guess that's okay.”

“It's okay?” An incredulous look crossed the other man's face. “It's okay that you're going to die? Disappear? Go...nowhere?”

Stiles shrugged. It was scary, sure. But it was better than living in a world where he had no control over what he did. If Azazel took hold of him, made him lead this army, there would be no family. No friends. No Derek. Everything he loved would be gone.

Karsen's eyes went black for a moment before quickly switching back to...green. Stiles had forgotten—bright, bright, _bright_ green. And kind of gold. Sort of...beautiful, actually. Stiles wondered who this person had been before the monster had taken his form. He was young. Someone somewhere must be missing him.

“You keep surprising me,” the Leviathan said, frowning as if the words confused him. “Just when I think I have you figured out...”

“Why can't you let me go?” Stiles knew it was a long shot. But if the guy had fallen so hard for him, why not try?

Karsen shook himself from a deep thought and huffed. “That's not how our little arrangement works.” The smirk fell from his face. “I don't know how long I'd be able to keep you alive anyway...I'm not really sure how long _I'll_ survive, to be honest.”

Stiles pursed his lips. No. Nope. Not feeling sorry for the kidnapper. Definitely not. “You could stay, help us. My dads—” 

“Would kill me the second I came near them.” Karsen smiled, the gesture genuine. “I'll see you around, Stiles.”

Stiles swallowed. “I don't think so, Karsen.”

And then it was just him again. The room was suddenly back in order, his mess gone. Stiles was mildly annoyed by that. He'd been angry, and now there was nothing to show for it.

He was tired now. He wanted to sleep, but the teen had the feeling that if he slept, there would be no waking up again. Ever. He had to fight. It didn't matter what Karsen said. 

His parents mattered.

His family mattered.

His friends mattered.

His mate mattered.

Mate. Derek.

Were they even still mates anymore? Stiles could feel the ache where their bond used to be. He guessed not. Karsen had seen to that.

It still didn't matter. It could be fixed. Stiles would get out of here and let Derek fuck his brains out until they were mates again a hundred times over.

Stiles would get out...

He would.

0 o 0 o 0

Gabriel sighed and wiped at his sweating brow. They were doing little more than trudging now, and without Dean, the glowing pinpoints of eyes around them seemed to be multiplying. Dean certainly had established a reputation out here. 

And then there was Ana.

She had been following them since Dean had been sent back. More than once, Gabe had heard the warning growl she emitted when one pair of eyes wandered too close to them, effectively warding off any danger that the angel might not be able to fend off in his current state. She was definitely handy. But Gabe didn't know why she was sticking around just to play surrogate guardian for their small entourage.

Derek walked like a sleepwalker, in a daze and with no conversation whatsoever. Not ideal for Gabe's chatty nature, but, hey, he couldn't exactly afford to be picky about his company.

A tree root suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the angel stumbled, reaching out and catching himself on his hands and knees. It wasn't a bad fall—his hands sort of stung—but it was enough to spur a stirring in the trees around them. The rustling converged, and Gabriel could see that the eyes had only one target in mind. 

“Derek!” he called out desperately, reaching towards the werewolf. No sooner had he said the name then a flash of fur and red eyes zipped by him. It was a wolf, small and slim and lithe. It's fur was dark brown, and as it curled around Derek's legs, it gave a low warning growl to the approaching figures just beyond the dark of the trees. The bright eyes faltered, sounds of frustration echoing out from the tree line, but nothing came further. They were safe. 

Gabriel sighed and sat back on his heels, breathing heavily. “Thank you, Ana,” he said, and the wolf startled, probably not used to being recognized in her wolf form. Derek shook his head, eyes clearing of their haze, and looked down at the wolf wrapped around his feet. 

He growled low in his throat, which made Ana cower back some, but Gabriel held a hand out. “Derek, it's okay.” The young man turned, eyebrows knitting as he realized Gabe was on the ground. He hurried over and took the angel's arm, lifting him to his feet. “She's...a friend.” He supposed, anyway. She certainly wasn't trying to be their enemy. Yet.

Ana slunk into the dark, appearing moments later in human form and pulling a tattered flannel shirt down over a scarred stomach. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just trying to help.”

Gabriel leaned into Derek's side a little more heavily than he wanted. “It's okay. Thanks for sticking around. It's kind of a jungle out here.”

“Do we need to stop?” Derek asked quickly before the girl could even smirk. At least someone appreciated Gabriel's humor.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a frustrated huff. “Just for a minute.” It would definitely be more than a minute. Derek helped him sit on the tree root that had almost killed him—it had seemed bigger and more menacing a moment before—and sat on the ground beside him. Ana shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again a few times before looking around and taking a seat beneath a tree opposite them both.

“You're pretty dumb,” she said quietly.

Gabriel smiled, a genuine one that he hadn't been able to muster since they'd gotten there. “Yeah, generally.”

Ana pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped lanky arms around them. “Sending home that hunter when you've got monsters after you,” she clarified. “You should have gone. You don't look good.”

The angel shrugged. “Priorities. What're you gonna do?”

“I think you should try to sleep,” Derek insisted, giving the girl a wary glance.

“Tone down on the skepticism, Derek. She saved your life.” Gabriel did want to sleep. But not if it meant these two were going to go at each other while his eyes were closed.

“We don't know her,” the werewolf said, face pinched like even the thought of trusting her was painful.

Gabriel's gaze fell on the pendant around Ana's neck, and he sighed tiredly. “Have a little faith, Big Guy.” He hunkered down onto the ground beside Derek and rested his head on the young man's shoulder, closing his eyes. “Play nice, kiddos.” A yawn escaped him. He could feel his limbs sinking into the dirt beneath him as sleep took hold. “Wake me in a couple hours.”

It was five hours before his eyes opened again.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel and Sam waited patiently just outside the door as Dean had his moment with Stiles. It was upsetting to see the man so broken. He looked tired, thin, on the brink of collapse. 

“We need to talk,” Sam said softly, his lips pressed together into a thin line. “All of us. When Gabe gets back.”

Castiel nodded, not having the strength to argue. “We will.”

Dean's sobs slowly petered off, and he raised himself from the bed, wiping at his face and turning to the two in the hall. “What happened?”

The angel held out his hand. “Later.”

“No, Cas, I want—” 

“Later,” Csatiel insisted, his hand reaching out further. “Come with me.”

Dean sighed, his shoulder slumping as he glanced back once more at Stiles and leaned down to place a kiss on the teen's forehead. “Don't go anywhere, kid,” he whispered into soft, unfuly hair before taking Castiel's hand and letting his husband lead him out of the room and towards the bathroom.

Castiel closed the door, starting the bath and checking that the temperature was warm enough before plugging the tub and turning to Dean. He was dirty. He didn't exactly smell—no more than anyone who had been stuck in an endless expanse of woods and running for their life did—but he didn't smell right, either. The angel had spent countless nights with his face pressed into Dean's pillow, with Dean's scent clouding his nose and throat. He needed that scent again. From the source. 

They stared at one another as Castiel stepped forward, fingers brushing up along the hunter's chest and underneath the grungy jacket until it was being shoved over his shoulders and down his arms. It fell to the floor with a heavy sound, and Dean sighed in relief, closing his eyes and leaning his head onto Castiel's shoulder. The angel undressed him slowly, letting his fingers ghost over every inch of skin. 

He loved Dean's skin. Rough and weathered. He'd lived a short life, compared to Castiel, but his skin told stories of long years spent fighting—for family and friends and survival. This skin was a map decades old, and there was still much to be explored. 

Castiel turned and shut the water off, taking Dean's hand and pulling him gently until he was sitting in the tub and leaning back. The angel knelt down, taking a wash cloth and rubbing it against a bar of soap until the lather was slippery and bubbly. He watched Dean's eyes close as he washed him, the cloth revealing tanned, beautiful skin beneath the dirt and grime. 

“I missed this,” Dean breathed tiredly, eyes opening halfway and gaze settling on the angel as the cloth loosed dirt from his stomach. 

Castiel smiled. “I don't recall many bathtubs in Purgatory.”

“Not that,” Dean chuckled, letting the gesture roll through his shoulders and rumble in his chest. “This. You. Being this close to you. Touching you.”

The angel ran the cloth down along one leg, taking time to smooth little circles on the soles of his feet before moving back up the other leg. “I missed you, too.”

Dean sighed gratefully as Castiel put the washcloth aside and poured shampoo into the palm of his hand, rubbing it into the hunter's scalp with just the right amount of pressure. “How's our boy been?”

The fingers in his hair faltered for just a moment before Cas spoke. “He's been...not good.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He's had nightmares. He sleeps in our bed almost every night.” Castiel filled a cup with water from the bath faucet and carefully poured it over Dean's head until the shampoo was rinsed away. “His friends try to help, but...something has been shadowing him.”

Dean opened his eyes and sat forward, leveling Castiel with a sharp look. “The Leviathan.”

Castiel sighed. It had been a short moment of allowing Dean to relax and forget everything, but he supposed it had to end at some point. No one would be able to rest for long until Stiles was back with them. “Yes.” He told Dean what he could—that Karsen had posed as a high schooler and attempted to befriend Stiles, that only a few days ago Stiles hadn't felt well and had suddenly collapsed into Castiel's arms, that there wasn't anything anyone could do to reach him...not even Crowley.

“Crowley?” Dean growled, fingers tightening on the tub edge. “He was here?”

“I asked Sam to bring him,” Castiel explained carefully, “for his blood. We need it to kill the Leviathan.”

“But he was near Stiles? In Stiles' head?”

The angel could see the fear and anger in his husband's eyes. “I just needed to know. I needed to see if we could reach him.”

“Cas—” 

“Our son is dying, Dean!” Castiel interrupted, his bottled frustration finally finding its way out. “Stiles is dying, and you weren't here. I had to make a decision, and I won't apologize for that.”

Dean's wet hands found the sides of his face, centering him and making his breathing slow. “Hey,” Dean said quietly, thumbs rubbing at his cheekbones. “I'm not accusing you of anything here, Cas.” Dean swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You're right. I wasn't here. And you took care of our family. You took care of our son just like you always have. And I am gonna be in your debt for that for the rest of forever, okay?”

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed, fingers curling around Dean's and pulling them away from his face. He held them tightly, their skin sliding from the soap residue left behind. “I was afraid,” he whispered. “I was so scared you weren't coming home. And I couldn't help Stiles. I'm supposed to keep him safe, Dean. I'm supposed to keep you both safe, and I couldn't.”

Dean squeezed his hands hard. “Enough. No more blame. We've both done enough of that. Stiles needs us to be strong.” He pulled himself closer to the tub edge, pressing his forehead against the angel's. “You and I are going to save our son.”

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that he didn't think they wouldn't be able to before. But just hearing the words from Dean's mouth was enough to make it real. Stiles was going to be okay. This man, his husband, would make sure of it.

0 o 0 o 0

It wasn't hard to hear the conversation in the bathroom. Not for a werewolf, anyway. Dean's deep voice tended to carry. And Isaac couldn't help the small huff that escaped his lips when Stiles' parents were done talking. They had such a powerful faith in one another, something he couldn't remember ever seeing in his own parents. 

“Do you think they will?” Boyd asked at his side, and Isaac lowered his head, staring at the grass beneath his sneakers. 

“Maybe.”

“I don't think they will,” the taller boy said, and Isaac looked up at him, jaw tight. Boyd had never been afraid to speak his mind, and he was usually pretty optimistic, as far as werewolves who rarely spoke went. But he also knew when to tell the truth of things. And this was a harsh truth that Isaac and the others had been hard pressed to ignore. 

“Why?” Isaac was fine with the statement. Well, he wasn't _fine_ with it, but he respected Boyd's right to have it, even though he'd rather it were different. He still wanted to know, though.

“That thing's been in Stiles for months. Who knows what it's done to him? If he's even Stiles anymore?”

“You don't think his dad or his uncle would be able to tell?” Erica asked from above them, leaning over the roof to stare down at them with a frown.

“They can't even get inside his head to talk to him,” Boyd said with a shrug. “How do we know if it's him?”

“Because Stiles is a fighter,” Scott said from behind them. Isaac and Boyd turned, finding the teen with a determined look on his face. “He wouldn't just let something in like that. He's got too much to fight for.”

“Stiles is strong,” Boyd agreed, “but he isn't invincible. He's still human.”

There was an awkward quiet that settled over the group as the statement sank in. Because Stiles was...different. They'd all smelled it, felt it. The spastic teen had never quite been like most humans. But the pack had refused to speak of it. Because it was still Stiles. He was still their friend.

“He'll make it,” Scott said with a finality that warranted no comment. “You two go home. Erica and I will take the rest of the night.”

Isaac pursed his lips, wanting to protest, but followed Boyd instead to Derek's car. 

Once they were a good distance away from the Winchester's home and heading towards the loft, Isaac said, “I think he'll fight.”

Boyd nodded. “He will,” he agreed. “But he'll probably lose.”

Isaac shrugged. “I think you're wrong.”

Boyd nodded again. “Good.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek let Gabriel sleep for as long as he could. The angel needed it, that was clear. But the time constraint was a little concerning. He really wanted to get back to Stiles. 

“Gabe?” He shook the older man's shoulder, and Gabe stirred. 

“Five minutes. Please, Sammy?” he murmured, shifting and burrowing further into Derek's shoulder. 

The werewolf sighed and gently shook him again. “Gabe, we have to go.”

The angel's eyes opened suddenly, and he sat up in an exhausted haze, glancing around as if trying to remember where he was. 

“Right,” he said, blinking slowly. “Yeah.”

Derek stood first, grasping Gabriel's upper arm and hauling him to his feet. 

Gabe swayed, closing his eyes against the dizziness and putting a hand on Derek's shoulder to steady himself. “Where to, kiddo?”

Derek frowned. “I thought you were supposed to be getting better.”

Gabe nodded, clenching his teeth. “I am getting better.”

“It doesn't look like it,” Ana said from a few feet away.

Derek made an angry noise deep in his throat, but Gabriel only squeezed his shoulder. 

“I feel better than I look,” the angel said simply, staggering a step. Derek caught him. 

“This isn't going to work,” he said in frustration. “I can't help you and concentrate on how to get out of here at the same time.”

Gabriel nodded his understanding, opening his mouth to speak but stopping when Ana stepped towards them.

“I can help,” she said.

Gabriel began to nod, but Derek was quick to decline. “No. I don't want her here.”

“Derek—” 

“Not while I can't protect you.”

“Who says I need protecting?” Gabe asked indignantly, though it was hard to take him seriously when his hands shook like that. 

“I can lead you to another alpha,” Ana offered with a shrug. “That way you can help him.”

“See?” Gabriel said matter of factly. “Problem solved.”

No. No problem solved. Problem very much not solved. 

Derek looked between the angel and the other werewolf. “And what if she leads us into a trap?”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Do you ever stop doubting people?”

Derek's nostrils flared as he pressed his lips together. “Not really,” he said through grit teeth. 

Gabriel sighed and shook his head. “If she leads us into a trap, I'll deal with it.” He gave the young girl a smirk. “But she's not going to. So quit worrying and let her help.”

Derek still wasn't happy about it, but he clamped his jaw shut and said no more, taking Gabe's arm and slinging it over his shoulder as Ana started into the dark of the woods. 

No more than twenty minutes later, she stopped, signaling them to keep quiet. She turned to the darkness and crouched low to the ground, waiting almost a full minute before springing between the trees. It was too dark to see, but there was scuffling and snarling and a few noises of pain before quiet settled over them again. 

When a young boy was thrown into their path, Derek stepped forward, shielding Gabriel from the stranger. 

“Jeez, Ana,” he said, southern twang apparent in his words. “You didn't have to be so rough. I didn't know it was you.”

Ana stepped into the clearing, boldly standing over the boy, who didn't look much older than her. “We need your brother.”

The boy stood, dusting himself off and glancing at Derek and Gabriel warily. “Who's 'we'?”

“They're none of your business,” Ana said angrily, taking a step towards the kid and making him cower back against a tree. “You go get him and tell him I need a favor. He owes me.”

The boy wiped his nose and offered the two behind her another look. “Says who? He don't owe you nothin'.”

“Says me,” the girl growled, squaring her shoulders and pressing herself into his space. “And if you don't go get him, I'll kick your ass again and find him myself.”

“Fine! God, Ana, you're so frickin' pushy,” the kid whined. 

“And you're a frickin' pussy,” Ana countered, hands on her hips. “We'll be waiting here.”

The boy slouched and ran off, muttering a few more unflattering things under his breath. 

When his footsteps could no longer be heard, Derek huffed sharply through his nose. “You know this alpha?”

Ana shrugged. “He's cute. We've hooked up a couple times.” Derek rolled his eyes. “Not like there's much else to do here.”

“You could look for your family,” Gabe suggested nonchalantly. 

Ana stilled. “What?”

The angel's eyebrows rose like he was surprised she hadn't thought of it before. “You haven't tried looking for them?”

The girls' breathing quickened. “They're here? In Purgatory?”

“No,” a deep, southern drawl said from the trees. A man stepped out of the darkness, and Derek tensed. There was power in him, a lot of it. Derek could sense that he was old, though he looked no older than thirty. “Purgatory is for the wicked, the sinners. That's all you'll find out there.” He sounded like one of those southern preachers on late night television, the ones telling people they needed to wash the sin from their souls by spending money on things like flasks of holy water and crosses carved from blessed trees and DVDs of the pope's funniest moments. He sounded fake. And intimidating.

“Jeremiah,” Ana greeted, and, yeah, of course someone like him would be named Jeremiah. “We need your help.”

“So I've been told,” Jeremiah said, gaze locking onto Derek's and his eyes turning a deep red. The man's nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. “You two don't belong here.”

“Not for a lack of wickedness,” Gabriel chimed in, attempting a smile. 

Jeremiah smirked at that. “Outsiders. Don't get many of those around here.” He glanced back at Ana, looking her up and down. “What's the matter? Couldn't get them back home?”

Ana's lips pulled into a thin line. “I already did. There were three of them before. I sent one of them back. I need you to send another one.”

“Why not both?” 

Derek's breath caught. It wasn't supposed to work like that. 

“You can do that?” Ana asked when no one else said anything. 

Jeremiah stayed quiet a moment longer before shrugging. “Worth a shot.”

Derek looked at Gabriel with eyebrows drawn together, an inquisitive look on his face, but the angel looked solemn, like he already knew the answer to whether or not this alpha could do what he claimed. “You first,” Derek said, swinging Gabe's arm off his shoulders and holding on to keep him steady. 

Stepping forward, Jeremiah started to reach out, but faltered when Ana stepped past him and right up to the angel, staring him down with a hard look. Gabe stared back, eyebrow quirking. “You're him, right?” she asked, voice quiet and quivering. “You're Gabriel?”

The angel smirked. “So I've been told.”

“That's not what I mean,” Ana said with a huff of frustration. 

“I know what you mean,” Gabriel replied, gaze dropping to the pendant around the girl's neck. “I'm sorry I wasn't there.”

Ana swallowed, her eyes filling with tears as she nodded. “My family's really here? I can find them?”

Behind her, Jeremiah made an impatient noise, but Gabe merely put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them. “Stay with Derek,” he said, the words almost a whisper. “Keep him safe. He'll show you where to go.”

Her gaze flicked over to Derek, and she frowned. “But—” 

“Enough, Ana,” Jeremiah said sharply, fingers curling around her arm and pushing her aside towards Derek. She stumbled, and Derek's instinct was to catch her. His eyes burned in a way that told him they were red as he glared at the other man.

Gabriel locked eyes with him. “Keep going,” he said firmly. “Get home as soon as you can. Stiles needs you.”

Derek nodded, his hackles rising when Jeremiah stepped forward and brought Gabriel's attention to him. The werewolf towered over him, and they stared at one another for a moment before Jeremiah's eyebrows drew together. “Interesting.”

Derek did not like the sound of that.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel wiped what was left of the shaving cream from Dean's face, smiling at the man like he was finally seeing him for the first time. Dean rubbed at his chin and sighed, too used to the stubbled jaw to be entirely comfortable with the smoothness of his skin. But there was something about a clean-shaven face that made him feel...better. Healthier. And if it put that look on his husband's face, he would gladly stay stubble-free for as long as he wanted him to.

The smile slipped from Castiel's face as he looked between Dean's eyes. “Dean...I wanted to ask you...”

“Anything,” Dean breathed, barely even having to think before saying the word. He would always give Cas what he wanted.

“I know there was a price for coming home,” the angel said, eyebrows drawn like he was in pain. “Do you remember what it was?”

Dean frowned and looked away, wracking his brain for anything he could remember about his last few moments in Purgatory. It was a blur. He knew there had been a girl, that she had looked at him like he was the devil, and that she had asked him for something. And it was just on the brink of his memory, but he couldn't quite reach it. “No. I don't.”

Castiel looked hesitant. “Can I...?” He raised a hand towards Dean's temple but froze inches from him, waiting for his permission. 

The hunter reached forward, bringing his husband's fingers to his head and giving him a reassuring smile. Castiel closed his eyes, his presence carefully spreading within Dean's mind, warm and encompassing. The angel stayed still for a long moment before taking in a sharp breath and stepping back from him, out of Dean's hold. 

Concern bloomed in Dean's chest, tight and uncomfortable. “Cas? What is it?”

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel breathed, tears forming in his eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

“Why?” Dean asked, shaking his head. “I feel fine. Cas, what's wrong?”

Castiel held up a shaking hand, starting towards their bedroom door. “Stay here,” he said, as if he were afraid Dean might try to bolt when he left. 

Dean only nodded, shifting on the bed and watching Castiel leave the room hurriedly. He picked up the towel his husband had dropped and wiped at the foam he could feel sliding down behind his right ear. Seconds later, the angel returned, Sam in tow. 

“What's going on?” Sam's eyebrows were drawn together, and he stared at Dean as if looking for answers. Dean merely shrugged.

“Sam,” Castiel said quietly, “I need the picture you keep in your wallet. The one of you and Dean.”

Sam frowned but complied, handing the folded, wrinkled picture to the angel with a sort of reverence. Cas took it carefully and looked it over before holding it out for Dean to take. He did, and when he looked at the picture, he couldn't help the smile that came to his lips. 

It was him and Sam, maybe a year or so before the younger of the pair went off to college. They were sitting at Bobby's dinner table, smiling and laughing at one another. Bobby had snapped this one after Dean had told a dirty joke he'd heard in a bar. 

“I remember that day,” Dean said with a nod. “We'd just come back from a hunt. Swamp creatures, or something. Ugly fuckers.” He tried to hand the picture back, but Cas gently took his hand, pushing the photo back towards him and pointing at another figure that Dean hadn't even noticed. 

“Dean, who is that?” he asked, finger poised just over the stranger's head. 

Dean frowned in concentration. The man had dark hair, like Sam's, and a stubbled chin. There were bags under his eyes, and the expression on his face conveyed almost an amused exasperation. Something in the back of Dean's head gave a sharp pain as he strained his memory trying to find the answer. The man was sitting with them, had the same kind of beer he and Sam were holding. Another hunter maybe? 

“I don't know,” he confessed, shrugging as he looked back up into Castiel's sad blue eyes. 

Sam's breath hitched and he snatched the picture away, holding it up and shaking it in Dean's face like he was trying to drive the image into Dean's brain. “What do you mean _you don't know_?” he asked, his tone almost angry. “Dean, you know who that is!”

Dean sat back a little on the bed, looking at the photo again and concentrating on the stranger's face. After a moment, he swallowed and shook his head. “I don't. Is he a hunter?”

The younger man lowered the picture to his side, a defeated look on his face as he turned to Cas. “That's what they took from him?”

Castiel nodded, closing his eyes and sighing. 

Looking between the two with more than a little growing frustration, Dean asked, “What did she take? Fuck! Just tell me! Who the hell is that?” He pointed at the photo, and Sam raised it again, giving it another sad look before handing it back to Dean.

“Dean...that's Dad.”

Dean's stomach plummeted. Dad? _Their_ dad? He couldn't remember their father? He blinked a few times at the photo, trying to take in the facial features again. Nothing came to him. It wasn't even like something was missing. He didn't feel like there was a hole in his memories or something he couldn't quite remember. This man was just...a stranger. With an odd sense of panic, he realized that as soon as he looked away from the picture in his hand, he couldn't remember what the man looked like, even though he'd just studied his face. And when he looked down again, it was as if he was seeing the man for the first time. Again.

“Oh,” he said, his voice small in his ears. “I don't... Are you sure?”

Sam turned away, running his hands through his hair before turning back with another desperate expression. “Do you remember Mom?”

“Of course I remember Mom,” Dean huffed indignantly. He was the only one left with memories of her... Shit, what if that girl had taken memories of their mother? There would be nothing left of her. She really would be gone forever.

“Can't you fix this?” Sam asked Castiel, gesturing to Dean like he was a broken thing.

Cas shook his head. “There's nothing I can fix. Dean's memories of your father are gone. I can't bring back what isn't there.”

Sam began to pace. “I didn't know it was going to be like this. What if it's the same for Gabe? What if it's _me_? Cas, if he forgets me, I don't know what I'm going to do.”

Dean stood and took the few steps to stop his brother's pacing, setting the man with a stern look. “Sammy, stop,” he said, and the other man halted just in time to keep from running face-first into him. “It's okay.” Sam stared at him like he wanted to believe him, like he was only a hair's breadth from giving in to the words. “It's okay, little brother.” 

And that's all it took, really. Sam's arms were wrapped around him in an instant, his face buried in Dean's shoulder as sobs shook him.

“I'm still me,” Dean said, rubbing the younger man's back in gentle circles. “And I guarantee that stubborn bastard of yours couldn't forget you even if he tried. 

Sam managed a muffled chuckle between the choked sounds he was making. And after a moment, he lifted his head, nodding and wiping at his face. “Okay.”

Dean gave his brother's shoulders a couple of firm pats before turning around to face his husband. Castiel's eyes were still wet, and he still looked guilty like the entire mess around them was his fault. “I'm still me,” Dean repeated, smile stretching his lips uncomfortably. 

Before anymore could be said, there was a loud _bang_ from downstairs. 

“Mr. Winchester!” a young voice bellowed, and all three men were running for the stairs in a blur. Sam reached them first, stopping and nearly tumbling as Dean and Cas slammed into his side.

At the bottom of the stairs, Scott and Erica stood in the entryway, the front door wide open...and an unconscious Gabriel held up between them.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek stared at the tree his sight had led him to with both frustration and disappointment. "I don't understand," he muttered, fingers sliding over the rough bark of the trunk.

"It's called a tree, genius," Ana said sarcastically, and Derek growled.

"I know it's a fucking tree," he spat, teeth grinding. "I don't know why the path stopped here."

Ana shrugged, staring up into the bare branches of the tree almost longingly. "Maybe the path goes...up."

Derek rolled his eyes. He really wished that Jeremiah had been able to send him back with Gabe. He could handle the angel's odd personality. This girl, who Gabe had for some unknown reason put a certain amount of faith in, was just short of intolerable. She talked. Constantly. About everything. And also nothing at the same time. In fact...she almost reminded Derek of Stiles.

He frowned and shook the thought from his head, looking back up and cocking his head as something caught his eye. "Do you see that?" he asked, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"See what?" Ana asked just as quietly, eyes wide and searching.

Derek swallowed hard and took a steadying breath to calm the shaking in his hands. "I think you're right," he said, claws extending and digging into the bark. He shared a quick glance with the girl. "I need to climb." He pulled himself up, grabbing a low-hanging branch and finding purchase with his feet. 

"Wait for me!" Ana said, scrambling after him as he climbed higher. 

"Keep up," Derek grunted, not bothering to look down to make sure she was. 

"Stop going so fast! You're gonna--" Ana didn't finish her sentence (fucking jinx). Before she could, the branch in Derek's hand snapped, and the bark beneath his claws crumbled. The pit of his stomach dropped as he began to fall, Ana making a noise of pain as he collided with her. 

They tumbled to the ground in a heap, Ana groaning loudly. 

"Fuck, Derek, get off!" she grumbled, shoving at him until he sat up. "Christ, you can navigate your way through Purgatory, but you can't climb a damn tree?"

Derek hummed distractedly, looking back up into the tree again and frowning. That was definitely not the same tree they had climbed. Actually, this new tree looked...familiar.

Approaching footsteps drew his attention away, and he stood quickly, Ana following suit and standing strong at his side. It reminded him so much of pack that he nearly faltered, but then a figure breached the tree line, and all thought stuttered to a stop. 

"Took you long enough to make your way back, little brother."

Derek swallowed. "Laura?"

The young woman looked just as he remembered her. Strong and beautiful. And she looked happy, something the young man couldn't recall seeing on her face since before the fire.

Laura laughed, and Derek's wolf delighted in the noise. "Duh, dummy. Now come on. You're late."

"Late?"

Laura rolled her eyes. "For dinner. Mom's got the table set."

His knees shook, his legs nearly falling out from under him. "Mom?" he croaked.

Laura's smirk morphed into a something softer. "She's known you were coming for a while. Hasn't stopped cleaning the house for weeks. It's driving everyone crazy, so you'd better just hurry up and--" 

Derek surged forward, enveloping his sister in a tight hug.

Laura sighed like the gesture was unnecessary but hugged him back just as fiercely. After a moment that just didn't seem long enough, she let him go. "All right, you big baby, cut it out." She glanced over Derek's shoulder, an eyebrow lifting. "Is your friend coming, too?"

Derek turned and watched Ana squirm under the scrutiny. "Yeah. She's coming."

There was an awkward silence before Laura stepped towards her. "I'm Laura, Mr. Manners' sister." She gestured to Derek, and he huffed indignantly.

He had manners...somewhere.

"Ana," the young werewolf introduced herself. "Derek's...escort, I guess."

"That's...cool," Laura said with a chuckle. "Come on. You look starved."

She led them through the woods, ones Derek was finding he recognized more and more. "Are we...?"

"Almost there," Laura promised, squeezing his shoulder as they finally broke into the clearing. 

Derek stopped breathing. It was...This was...

"Welcome home, Derek," Laura whispered, starting towards the large house. 

His family's house, in perfect condition. No charred remains, no smell of ash and smoke. Just...

"Home," he breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh!! Gabe's back!!!! :D :D :D 
> 
> This chapter was really Supernatural heavy, I thought, but we'll get back into the Teen Wolf side of things soon enough. Super big hugs to you all!!!


	8. Home. Home. There's No Place Like...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and whispering what he'd wanted to say for several months...before everything had gone to complete shit. 
> 
> “Marry me, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! Well, hello there! It's so lovely to see you again! My goodness, you look amazing today. I love what you've done with your hair. :)
> 
> I know I haven't been updating as frequently as I'd like, but I do appreciate everyone's patience with this series! I do have so many great things planned for it! There's only one chapter left in this part, and then it's onto the next!!
> 
> You guys are awesome!! Thank you so much for all your support!!

Derek's family was just as he remembered them—funny and loud and prone to bickering (mostly in jest). And _love_. He remembered the love.

Not that he didn't have love with his new pack. And...Stiles. But it was different. This place, his family, made him feel better than he had in a long time. The ache in him was starting to leave.

“What are you doing here?”

Derek turned. Laura was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. It was an exact replica of the one he'd had when he was fourteen—the one that had burned in the fire.

His shoulders dropped, and he glanced around the room again. “Remembering.”

Laura made her way into the room and plopped down next to him. “You're not supposed to be here.”

Derek closed his eyes. The words hurt to hear, especially from the one person he missed most. “I know I don't belong...”

Laura laughed, shoving at his shoulder with her own. “I didn't say _that_ , stupid.” The younger werewolf frowned and looked back at his sister with frustrated confusion. “I _mean_ you're not supposed to be here _yet_.” One corner of Laura's mouth quirked. “You've still got some living to do, little brother.”

Derek glanced down at his fidgeting hands. “Being here...makes me wish that weren't true.”

Laura sighed and stood, pacing the room with ease, like she'd been in there more than a few times. “I know. Mom wants you to stay.”

“Could I?” Derek asked, his voice smaller than he'd intended it to be. He felt like a teenager again, asking his big sister for advice.

Laura frowned. “If you wanted to. Mom would make it happen.”

“But you'd be angry with me.”

“Duh.”

“Why?”

Laura paused her pacing and crossed her arms, watching him carefully. “You don't remember being here, do you?”

Derek shook his head. He'd been told by the others where he had been, was almost certain he dreamed about it sometimes. But he didn't remember this place outside of his childhood memories.

“He came for you,” Laura said softly. 

Derek nodded. “I know.”

The young woman laughed. “He didn't even tell you who he was, just kind of hoped you'd remember...You should have seen the look on his face, Derek. He has it so bad for you, it's not even funny.”

Derek's shoulders slumped further. “Not anymore.”

One of Laura's eyebrows lifted. “What, did he break up with you, or something?”

Derek swallowed. “Things are...complicated.”

“So _un_ complicate them.”

“It's not that simple.”

“Do you love him?”

Derek's breath caught, his fingers clenching the fabric of his jeans. “Yeah.”

“Then it _is_ that simple,” Laura said. “Whatever you did, Derek, whatever _he_ did...fix it. Stiles is important.”

The younger man tensed, his instincts telling him something was seriously off. “What—” 

“Mom wants you,” his sister interrupted, heading for the door. “Time to send you home, little bro.”

0 o 0 o 0

Gabriel woke with a gasp, struggling against the hands on his arms until his vision stopped swimming and a beautifully familiar face came into view.

“Sammy,” he breathed, falling back against the Winchester's living room couch. “Oh, am I glad to see you.”

Sam's grip tightened on him, and the angel felt a shuddering breath rumble its way out of the hunter. “Yeah. Glad to be seen...and recognized.”

Gabe's eyes snapped open, despite the tiredness pulling them shut, and he studied the fear and frustration and relief on his face. “Where's Dean?”

“Upstairs with Stiles,” Sam replied, swallowing hard and clearing his throat. “You've been out for a while.”

Gabriel's limbs felt heavy; he wanted so badly to reach out and smooth the lines from Sam's forehead, but his arms wouldn't move more than a few inches off the cushions. “I'm sorry.”

Sam shook his head, bringing Gabe's hand up to his mouth and kissing the angel's knuckles. “I'm just...I'm so glad you didn't forget me.”

Gabriel sighed and closed his eyes again. “Forget you? Not likely, Sammy.”

Sam smile against Gabe's hand, his eyes wet and puffy. “But you...had to give something up, right? That's how you got back.”

“Yeah. I had to give something up.”

Sam squeezed his hand, staying quiet despite the question hanging between them. 

“A year,” the angel said, his throat tight and sore. “They took the last year of my life here on earth.”

Sam's eyebrow's knitted together, and he lowered Gabe's hand. “How...I mean, that has to be _years_ from now. _Decades_. How many years do you have left?”

Gabriel's lips quirked. “As many as you do.” His lips thinned. “Minus one, I guess.” 

Sam went quiet, breathing stilted as he watched the angel with blank eyes. “So...the last year of my life...I'll be alone.”

“Not alone,” Gabe said, trying to sit up and failing miserably. “I'll make sure you're not alone, Sammy. I promise.”

“But you'll be gone.”

“I'll be...waiting.”

Sam huffed and stood, releasing Gabe's hand. The angel's stomach plummeted. 

“Sammy—” 

“It's fine.”

“It's not.”

“It's just a year, Gabe.”

“It's an important year, Sam.”

“I'll live.”

“I know. That's kind of the point.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Gabriel.”

“Sammy.” The name must have sounded desperate because Sam was back at his side instantly, hands grasping his and head lowered to the angel's chest. “I shouldn't have told you.”

Sam raised his head, shook it. “No. No secrets. You promised me a long time ago.”

“I did,” Gabe sighed. “And I'm promising you now...” Gabriel willed his arm to move, his fingers to brush the stray hairs from Sam's face, his hand to cup the hunter's chin. “...I will always be here.”

Sam closed his eyes, tears tracking down his cheeks. “I love you.”

The angel's eyelids fluttered as exhaustion settled over him again. “I love you, too,” he whispered before sleep took hold. 

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel's heart ached. For several reasons, but the conversation he had just overheard between his brother and Sam was slowly embedding itself into the center of that chaos. His son was dying, his husband had given up a part of himself to be back with him, and Derek was still trapped in Purgatory on his own. 

Everyone was making sacrifices, and Castiel felt the blame settle solely on himself. 

He turned from the top of the staircase and started back towards Stiles' room, a glass of water appearing in his hand from nowhere. He had intended to go down to the kitchen and retrieve one—the _human_ way, as he'd been doing for several years now—but interrupting the moment between the two in the living room seemed harsher than expending what little power he still afforded himself. 

He entered the room quietly, sighing as he found his husband sitting on the floor, his back to Stiles' bed and his chin dropped to his chest as he slept. 

“Dean,” he said softly, not wanting to wake the man but knowing he would be sore if he left him. Dean drew in a sharp breath, head lifting and gaze fluttering around the room as he tensed. Castiel stayed perfectly still as the hunter took in his surroundings, and the moment that he saw pained relief cross the man's face, he spoke again. “Come with me. You need sleep.”

Dean rubbed at his tired face. “I _was_ sleeping.”

“In a bed, Dean,” Castiel replied patiently, holding out a hand and waiting. It was something unspoken between them—no matter the circumstances, no matter their mood, when one of them offered their hand, the other took it. It was a promise of safety and loyalty and love. And Castiel found he always enjoyed Dean's warm fingers threaded between his own.

Dean stood, squeezing Stiles' hand and staring down at their son with fatherly concern. “I don't want to leave him.”

“I know.” Castiel swallowed hard on the tightness in his throat. “I don't want to either. But we need sleep.” Dean looked at the angel then, red-rimmed eyes assessing him at the use of _'we.'_ “He won't be alone.” As if on cue, Erica carefully slid into the room from the window, offering a reassuring smile as she sat on the edge of the bed and took Stiles' other hand in hers. “Come, Dean.” 

Castiel's hand was still held out between them, and after releasing a pent-up breath, Dean took it, downing the water Castiel gave him as well. 

When Castiel had led them down the hallway to their own bedroom and situated them on the bed—Dean curled around the angel from behind—only then did he allow himself a moment to fall apart.

Because without his husband there to hold him, keep him together, he feared he might actually shatter to pieces. 

He didn't even notice the tears—hadn't cried for so long—until Dean was wiping them away, whispering assurances into his ear and peppering the side of his face and neck with light kisses. 

“It's gonna be okay, Cas,” the hunter said.

And Castiel chose to believe him. Because otherwise he might not find the strength to get back up again.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles groaned when the flutter of a presence filled his not-room, and he curled himself tighter around the pillow on his not-bed. “You said you weren't coming back,” he complained, voice muffled. 

“Well, I just had to see for myself what was holding up this show of mine.”

That was definitely not Karsen's voice. It was deep and rough and held a tone—a _power_ —that had Stiles' skin crawling. He sat up quickly, shoving the pillow aside and staring at the newly-appeared figures in his bedroom. One of them was Karsen, his eyes wide and fear-filled and his body stiff like he couldn't move. 

And the other...

The other stared back at him with yellow eyes. 

No, they weren't just yellow. They were _ancient_ —if that made any sense to anyone other than the teen. Those eyes emanated every fear and nightmare that Stiles had ever had, quashed the courage and hope he'd built over the years. This demon was old and strong and would destroy anything he couldn't take for himself. 

Stiles felt himself included in that list of things. 

“You're Azazel,” Stiles said on a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as his thoughts churned to dredge up everything he'd been told—willing and not-so-willing—about him. He looked nothing like the man Uncle Sammy had described once. In fact, he didn't look like a _man_ at all; barely older than Stiles. It made sense, the change of host, considering his old one had been shot and killed...as _he_ had supposedly been. 

Azazel was tall and rail-thin, blond hair flopping across his forehead and into his unsettling eyes. His face was long, pale skin stretched over high cheekbones. Stiles could almost see him as a school teacher, wondered if he had been before the demon had taken him.

“And you're Stiles,” Azazel said conversationally, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a few side steps around the room, glancing it over with little interest. “The Boy King.”

Stiles shook his head, made to protest, but the words stuck to the back of his teeth. He felt cold and helpless in this demon's presence. Any warmth he'd managed to preserve for himself was completely snuffed out. He couldn't breathe. 

“I have to say, Stiles, you don't seem like much,” Azazel continued, his gaze piercing the teen where he sat on the bed. “Not yet, anyway.” Even the smile he gave was cold, wide, and unbearable to look at. “But I'm a patient man.” He stopped at the foot of the bed, squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck. “You'll get there.”

“I won't,” Stiles managed past the tightness of his throat, swallowing what felt like a thousand needles and shaking his head. “Not for you.”

Azazel chuckled. “ _Yes_ for me, Stiles. _Only_ for me.”

The teen felt something tug on his insides, and suddenly he was across the bed, kneeling so that he was face-to-face with the demon. And if he thought he was frightening from across the room, seeing him a mere breath from him was absolutely _terrifying_. 

The coldness was gone, replaced by sweltering, suffocating heat. It was coming off the demon in waves, and Stiles felt the first few beads of sweat trickle down his forehead. 

“You were _made_ for me, boy,” Azazel said, breath harsh and acrid as it tinged Stiles' nostrils. “And I will have you.”

Stiles swayed unsteadily on the bed, watching helplessly as the demon reached forward and pushed his collar aside to reveal the anti-possession sigil his Uncle Gabe had given him for his eighteenth birthday. 

_All the fun of having the ability to repel demons and none of the pain of getting a tattoo._ Gabriel's words rang in his ears before Azazel's fingers ghosted over the sigil, bringing with it the most intense pain the teen had ever felt. His skin sizzled, and the smell of burnt flesh took hold so strong he nearly threw up. Blood rushed into his ears, and his throat felt raw from the scream he must have released. He couldn't tell if he was actually making any noise; everything was just so loud in his head. 

Azazel removed his fingers, but the burning continued, and Stiles fell back against the bed bonelessly, lost in the pain and the fire and the _burnburnburn_. 

“I'm going to show you what will happen to everyone you love if you don't accept who you are,” the demon said, walking slowly back towards the center of the room, and Stiles found his head snapped in the direction, where Karsen still stood unmoving. “Because I've found, Stiles, that the best form of motivation—” Karsen's head was suddenly across the room from his body, black oozing from the place on his neck where it used to be. “—is _visualization_.” 

Stiles felt bile at the back of his throat, did everything he could to will himself to swallow it down before he choked.

Azazel shook out his left hand, still covered in the black ooze, and stepped over Karsen's twitching body, looking as if the action were extremely off-putting. He made his way to the bed and sat on the edge near Stiles, giving the room one last bored once-over before directing his gaze straight at the teen. 

Stiles stopped breathing. 

“I'll see you soon, kid,” the demon said roughly, the wide smile returning to his face before he was suddenly gone. 

Stiles felt the cold settle in his bones once more. And long after he felt control return to his limbs, he stayed still...praying he would never move again. Not if it meant having to face that utter terror again.

0 o 0 o 0

Boyd sat up on the couch in Derek's loft abruptly. He'd only just started to doze, but something wasn't right.... And as a shout echoed from Isaac's room, he realized what that something was and tore through the loft to find the young man thrashing on his bed amidst sweat-soaked sheets. 

“Isaac!” he called, settling on the edge of the bed and dodging wayward limbs to grasp at the slimmer teen's arms. “Isaac! It's a dream! Wake up!” Boyd didn't hold him hard enough to pin him—Lord knew that was the last thing he needed to wake up to—but as the teen wrenched himself back into consciousness, the larger man kept a firm, steadying grip. 

Isaac's eyes flew open, wide and wet and searching, and when his erratic gaze found Boyd's, he went slack and fell into the other's arms. Boyd rubbed his back and made soothing noises. It was habit after so many nights like this—for all of them—but it had been a while since Isaac had been the one to need comfort.

The smaller teen grabbed Boyd's t-shirt and buried his face in the soft fabric as silent sobs shook his body. “Stiles,” he whimpered. “It's Stiles. It's Stiles.”

Boyd frowned and pulled Isaac away from him an inch (which was about as far as Isaac would let him before his grip tightened and he refused to let go). “What about Stiles?”

“You were right,” Isaac choked, shaking his head and taking in a shuddering breath. “You were right. Stiles...He's gonna give up. He's gonna die. He's—” 

“Hey,” Boyd said harshly to get the other's attention. “No one said anything about Stiles dying.” Isaac swallowed loudly and closed his eyes. “What was your dream about?”

The skinny teen took a shuddering breath. “Stiles. He...I was in his room. And he was awake—his eyes were open—but he wasn't moving. He wouldn't _move_. I kept shouting, trying to make him get up, but he wouldn't.... He just...”

“Gave up,” Boyd finished, and Isaac nodded. “It was just a dream.”

Isaac shook his head and whispered, “It didn't feel like a dream.”

Boyd squeezed the other's arms. “Has Stiles ever given up?”

“No.”

“Do you still think Stiles will fight whatever this is?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was a dream,” Boyd said simply. “Just a nightmare.”

Isaac was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice small and broken. “But what if it wasn't?”

Boyd didn't really have an answer for that one. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek descended the stairs slowly, fingers lightly grazing the banister. He'd slid down it so many times when he was younger—until one of his human cousins had tried to copy him and ended up with a fractured collarbone. His mother had forbidden it after that. 

He reached the bottom of the stairs and stared out over the empty dining room. The whole _house_ was empty, as far as he could tell, except for this mother and Laura, who he could sense were waiting for him in the living room. He savored the short walk down the hallway, taking in the pictures on the walls on either side. They hadn't had pictures when his family was alive, at least not this many. There were photos of everyone, even the wolves, and no eye flashes to ruin them. Everyone was smiling, everyone looked happy. 

Derek wanted that so badly, knew he could have it if he only asked....

He rounded the corner to the living room, finding his mother standing in the center of the room facing him with a smile that was so mixed with emotion that it hurt to look at. Laura was sitting on the couch nearest to the window, arms crossed and a flat look on her face—the one she always had when she and their mother had been fighting. 

“Derek,” Talia said softly, holding her hands out for him to take, and he stepped forward to do so. “It has been so wonderful having you here.”

“I've liked being here,” Derek said earnestly. “I missed you.”

Talia pulled him forward into a hug. “I wish life had not been so cruel to you.”

Derek closed his eyes and nuzzled into his mother's neck. “I want to stay.”

The alpha pulled back from their embrace, holding Derek's face in her hands like he was a child—which was appropriate, considering that's exactly how he felt. “That is up to you, my son. Your choice to remain here must be yours. Is there any reason, any at all, that would make you doubt your wish to stay?”

Derek hesitated, which was apparently all his mother needed. On the couch, Laura seemed to relax, a smile easing onto her face. 

“I love you, Derek,” Talia whispered, pulling him forward again and hugging him fiercely.

“I wish I could say goodbye to the others,” Derek mourned, tears stinging his eyes.

“It isn't goodbye, my love,” his mother said, holding him at arm's length but not releasing him. “We'll see you again.”

“Later, rather than sooner,” Laura piped up, and Derek couldn't decide whether the sentiment was meant to be happy or sad.

As his mother leaned in to whisper something in his ear, he decided on both. 

And then the world went dark. 

0 o 0 o 0

Of course, almost as soon as the darkness surrounded him, it was gone, replaced by somewhere very familiar. 

It was Stiles' bedroom; well, _almost_ Stiles' bedroom. It was Stiles' things in a room made of...nothing. Was this home? Was this _real_? 

The desk that held the teen's laptop was there. Bookcases filled with comics and various action figures that Stiles had made a point to mention were _collectibles, not dolls_. 

And Stiles' bed was there. 

With Stiles on it. 

Staring at the ceiling of nothingness.

... _Staring_?

Derek's heart skipped a beat as the reality of Stiles being awake hit him. 

“Stiles!” he called, running to the bed and sitting on the edge. His hands fluttered mid-air for a moment as he debated whether or not he should touch the younger man. The teen hadn't moved a muscle, hadn't made any indication that he'd heard him at all.

But he was breathing, his eyes were shifting slightly as he blinked. 

“Stiles?” Derek settled a hand gently on the other's cheek and turned his head until they were looking at each other...sort of. Derek was looking at him. Stiles seemed like he was staring straight through him. “Stiles...Talk to me. Please.”

“Go away.”

The words were so quiet and so sudden that Derek almost wasn't sure he'd heard them. “What?”

Stiles closed his eyes and turned away from him, curling onto his side and making himself impossibly small. “Leave. I don't want you here.”

Derek's breath stuttered. This was his dream, his nightmare. He'd done this to Stiles by not being there, by secluding himself. He wanted to grab the teen, gather him in his arms, and squeeze until Stiles believed he was sorry—so, so sorry. But he was afraid that the second he touched him, all he would see were those dead eyes, hear Stiles telling him that he'd killed him. 

_How could you do this to me?_

_Derek, I loved you._

_Derek._

_Derek._

_Derek._

“Derek.”

The werewolf shook himself and released a shuddering breath. Stiles' head was turned slightly, but not enough to look him in the eye. 

“I said you should leave,” the teen said firmly, but Derek heard no animosity in the words. 

“You don't want that,” Derek said as realization bloomed in his chest. 

“I do,” Stiles said in a small voice, and Derek heard the lie in his heartbeat. 

The older of the two breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever was bothering Stiles, it wasn't him. “I'm not leaving until you talk to me.”

“Nothing I say is going to matter.”

“ _Bullshit_ , Stiles. You never stop talking _because_ everything you say matters,” Derek argued. And it was the truth—at least to Derek it was. It didn't matter what Stiles prattled on about. It could be television that Derek never watched or comic books that Derek never read or a thousand other things that Derek wasn't interested in. If Stiles spoke, Derek listened. Because it was important to Stiles. And Stiles was important to Derek.

“I love you, Stiles Winchester,” Derek said, eyes taking on a pleading look, “and you need to come back with me so I can show you that.”

“There's a demon after me,” Stiles said conversationally, his shoulders hunching. “I'm too dangerous to be around.”

“I don't care,” the werewolf declared fiercely. 

“I'll probably end up killing everyone we know, everyone we love.”

“I don't care.”

“And you. I'll kill you, too.”

“I don't care, Stiles.”

Stiles sat up abruptly and faced him with an incredulous look. “ _Why_?” he demanded. “You _should_ care, Derek. If that demon gets his hands on me— _when_ he does—the world is in serious trouble.”

“And we'll deal with it the same way we always have.” Derek swallowed hard and tried his best not to choke on the next word. “Together.”

Stiles stayed completely still for a moment before his face suddenly crumpled and he fell forward into Derek's chest. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Derek wrapped his arms around the younger man, squeezing tightly and burying his nose in the crook of his neck. Even in this place—where ever the hell it was—he still smelled like Stiles.

“It's okay,” he assured. 

“It's not,” Stiles sobbed. “Karsen. It was Karsen. He...He—” 

Derek's grip on the teen tightened instinctively, and he growled. “Did he hurt you?” Stiles fisted the fabric of Derek's shirt and cried harder, making the werewolf's hackles rise. “What did he do?” When Stiles didn't answer, Derek gently pushed him until he could see the young man's face. “Stiles....”

“I thought it was you,” Stiles said, his voice broken and wrecked. “He tricked me. Our bond...It's gone. He broke it.”

Derek nodded, the pit of his stomach churning. “I know. I felt it.” He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “Stiles, did he...Did he take advantage of you?” He opened his eyes in time to see Stiles shaking his head, and a breath whooshed from his lungs in utter relief. 

“He tried,” Stiles admitted, tears flowing down his face as he squirmed with what must be horrifying memories. “But I told him 'no.' I fought.” The attempted watery smile was enough to make Derek give an encouraging one of his own. 

“Of course you did. You're the strongest person I know.”

“Not strong enough,” Stiles muttered, wiping his face and fixing Derek with a defeated gaze. “Derek, our bond....”

“We'll fix it,” the werewolf insisted, suddenly becoming uncertain. “If...If you want to.”

Stiles nodded emphatically and cupped Derek's face in shaking hands. “I do. God, I do.” He laughed, and it was sad and awful. But it was still Stiles, so Derek rejoiced in the noise and tugged the young man forward into a tight embrace. 

“Come back with me.” He pulled back and pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and whispering what he'd wanted to say to Stiles for several months...before everything had gone to complete shit. 

“Marry me, Stiles.”

Stiles' breath caught, and he sat back, his face slack with shock. Derek clenched his teeth and waited, wishing Stiles would show him something, _anything_ , on that beautiful face of his. 

And when the room was suddenly dark and there was a sharp tug on his insides, the only thought running through his head was

_Please, Stiles. Please remember this._

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke in his room—his _real_ room—with a gasp and only one name on his lips....

He took a ragged breath and shouted as best his weak body would allow him. 

“ _Pop_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhhh, I bet that wasn't the name you were expecting him to say...
> 
> One more chapter!! And here's your official THERE WILL BE SMUT warning.
> 
> Because there will be.
> 
> Many much of it. :)
> 
> Can't wait to see you all in the final chapter of this part!! Toodles!!


	9. Torture. Agony. Perfect. Perfect. Fucking Perfect.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just hold on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screaming internally and externally and just really any "-ernally" that can be screamed*
> 
> FINAL CHAPTER! FINAL CHAPTER! FINAL CHAPTER! 
> 
> ...of this part. Haha! Oh my goodness, look at you with your beautifulness today!! You look wonderful! I can't even imagine you looking awful, to be honest, but HOT DOG, you're just dripping with good looks today!!! :D
> 
> I'm so happy to be posting this last chapter of the third part in the Don't Tell My Dads series. I know it's been a ridiculously long road, and I am so happy you guys have stuck with me through it. I couldn't have done it without you!! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it (especially the sexy times...mmmm, sexy times). ;)
> 
> Read! Enjoy! Go Be Glorious!!!

Dean heard it first. It was haunting and loud, and his teeth ached at the awfulness in that voice.

That voice.

_Stiles' voice._

“Stiles,” he was able to say before both he and Cas were off the bed and rushing down the hall towards their son's room. Sam appeared at the top of the stairs, hair wild and eyes wide as he exchanged a desperate look with them and ran towards the teen's room as well.

“Pop!” Stiles yelled again just as they reached the room, Dean tumbling in first and nearly tripping over his own feet at the sight of Stiles awake and fighting against Erica's firm grip on his flailing arms and crying.

 _Crying._ God, there were terrible, _horrifying_ sobs ripping themselves from his son's throat, and he couldn't bear it. Before he could stop himself, he was surging forward, ignoring the warnings from Cas and Sam and waving Erica away. Stiles was awake and in his arms and crying into his shoulder and holding him so _tight_ like he used to when he was six and afraid of the dark. And only _Pop_ could make it better.

_Make it better, Pop. Make it go away._

“I've got you,” he whispered into the teen's hair, brushing the unruly locks back away from his sweat-laced face. “I got you, Stiles. It's okay. It's gonna be okay.”

“Dean,” Cas said gently, a warm hand caressing his shoulder, and the hunter closed his eyes. Because he didn't want to give this up, not even for a second.

But they had to know.

Reluctantly, he loosened his hold on his son, taking a deep, shuddering breath and plastering a smile on trembling lips. “Hey, buddy. I'm...I'm gonna have Dad look you over, okay? Just for a second. I promise I'll be right here.”

For a moment it looked as if Stiles might protest. His grip on Dean's shirt tightened, and his eyes filled with more tears. But with a shuddering breath of his own, he sniffed and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cas knelt beside the bed, smiling at their son and taking his face in both his hands. “Hi, Stiles,” he said quietly, and the teen managed a hiccough that was probably meant to be a laugh.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles said, his voice rough with disuse and his eyes red and puffy from crying. 

He looked...bad. There was another word for it, something Dean was trying to bring to the front of his thoughts. But all he could think of was Stiles. 

Stiles, who looked like he had been to hell and back (and Dean certainly knew a thing or two about that). He was pale and thin. His eyes weren't as bright as they'd been before. His bony shoulders were hunched, and his lips looked thin and dry.

 _Brittle_. That was the word Dean had been looking for. His son looked on the verge of breaking to pieces in his arms and scattering to the floor.

Cas closed his eyes, and a collective breath was taken while the angel searched the young man's mind. 

Searched for Stiles.

It only took a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before Cas resurfaced, a mixed look twisting his features. “It's him,” he said at last, though he still seemed uneasy. 

“What is it?” Dean asked, grip on Stiles tightening. 

Cas' lips thinned, and he leveled Stiles with a steady gaze. “Stiles...I can't see what happened while you were asleep. Your mind has a block on it.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “What...What does that mean?”

“It means someone doesn't want us to know what happened while you were under whatever sleeping hex you were given.” Cas sighed and tilted his head. “Can you tell us what happened? Where you were? Who you were with?”

Stiles paused, and the silence in the room was deafening. He glanced up at Dean, looking for all the world like he was a child again, like all he wanted was a hug and reassurance that he was safe. “I don't remember.”

Dean frowned. “Are you sure, Stiles?”

Stiles nodded, but it was stilted. He knew something...

His expression changed, suddenly, to something Dean had never seen before. “Pop, I...” He swallowed hard and shook his head, loosing new tears and burying his face in Dean's shirt again. His words were muffled and quiet, but Dean knew. 

“Don't, Stiles,” he said, wrapping his arms around the young man and shaking his head. “Don't bring it up. Don't even think about it.”

Stiles pulled away, tear stained face a mess of anger and guilt and terror. 

_Terror?_

“It's all I can think about. All I _have_ been thinking about.” Stiles took a few shuddering breaths. “I said I hated you. I said that, and then we came back and you didn't. And that could have been the last thing you ever heard from me. The last thing you ever heard from _anyone_. I don't...How can you even look at me?”

Dean couldn't stand it. He couldn't listen to his son doubt who he was and what he'd done. Dean knew he hadn't meant it. Yes, it had hurt, but he'd known it wasn't Stiles saying those things. It wasn't his son...But the words failed him. Hurt and ache clung to the back of his throat, blocking any comfort he could offer the teen. 

“Stiles,” Cas said instead, “it wasn't you.”

Stiles shook his head, ready to protest, but the angel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“It wasn't,” he insisted. “There was a Leviathan. The boy from your school.”

Stiles shuddered and clung to Dean. “Karsen.”

“Was he there with you?” Castiel asked quietly, fingers stringing through the teen's hair and combing through it. “While you were asleep?”

Stiles closed his eyes. “He wanted me...”

“He wanted you to _what_ , Stiles?”Dean asked, holding his breath and praying his son didn't mean what he thought—all the heinous scenarios bulldozing through his head.

Stiles was quiet, and then the trembling began. “He just...wanted me. For himself. He wanted to keep me.”

Dean growled low in his throat. “I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

“He's already dead,” a voice at the door said, and everyone turned. 

“Derek,” Erica breathed, jumping up and running to him. He let her crowd in against him, rub at his arms and shoulders. He looked exhausted, beaten.

But he was back. Just like the rest of them.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek felt his mother's arms slip away, felt the warmth of his home leave his body, felt the familiar smells of family fade. And what came crashing back to him was cold, relentless reality. He smelled dirt and grass and damp wood.

He was home.

A different home.

One that he loved no less than the childhood home he'd been allowed to see again for a short time. But one that didn't exactly spur him into wanting it more than the one in Purgatory.

He opened his eyes. He was in the Winchester's backyard, where the entire nightmare had begun. He wondered if Dean and Gabriel had been so lucky to land this close. A deep inhale told him that they had, at least, made it in one piece and were inside. 

And so was Stiles, who was screaming and sobbing and _awake_. 

“Stiles!” Derek called, running to the back door and navigating his way through the dining room and the hallway. He made it to the bottom of the stairs before Stiles' haunted words froze him in place. 

_“I don't remember.”_

He didn't remember...?

Derek shook his head. No, that was a lie. He could _tell_ it was a lie. Stiles' heart rate was all over the place. Why wouldn't he want his parents to know? To help? Was he still being influenced?

“You know, you're awfully loud for someone standing so still,” someone said from the living room, and Derek jumped. 

“Gabe?” he asked, breathing a sigh of relief and heading into the room. Gabriel didn't stand from the couch, merely moved over a bit so the young werewolf could sit beside him, which Derek did. “How are you doing?”

Gabriel chuckled and shifted with a grunt. “How do I look?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Like shit.”

Gabriel laughed harder. “Yeah, well, don't worry. I feel worse.”

The young man pressed his lips together tightly. “Did you talk to Sam?”

With a tired nod, the angel gave a withering smile. “Yeah. Wasn't pretty. But we'll manage.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You shouldn't be,” Gabe said. “There's nothing to be sorry about. We all made it. Mostly intact.” He gave Derek a curious look. “And how about our friend from the woods?”

One corner of the werewolf's mouth twitched. “My family is going to help her find her parents.”

“Family,” the angel repeated absently. “So I take it you found your alpha?”

Derek leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and linking his fingers. “Yeah. I found her.”

Gabriel nodded like he understood. And Derek certainly hoped he did because the thought of having to explain the loss of his family _again_ was pure torment. “What'd she want?”

Derek swallowed. “I don't think I'm allowed to say.”

He turned and found the angel watching him, eyebrows drawn together. “Does it have to do with Stiles?”

“...Yes.”

“Is he going to get hurt?”

“I won't let that happen,” Derek said firmly, claws extending just slightly and tugging at the skin on his hands. “Ever.”

Gabriel relaxed a little more into the couch and sighed tiredly. “Better get up there before it gets ugly.”

Derek nodded and stood, surprised when a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist and tugged sharply. Suddenly, he was staring into the eyes of an archangel, gaze so piercing and fierce that he couldn't help falling to his knees and gasping at the sight.

“And be sure that you do take care of him, Derek.” Gabriel's voice was different; booming but not loud, fierce but not cold. It was the voice of a herald, the voice of God Himself.

And it was the most terrifying thing Derek had ever heard.

“That kid up there is the most important being on the planet,” Gabriel continued, eyes growing brighter, “and he deserves safety and protection and love...Can you give him that?”

Derek shook himself of the trance he'd fallen into enough to nod and say,” I can.”

“Are you sure?” Gabriel asked, his voice dimming and a bright amusement slowly taking over his features.

Derek breathed deeply and nodded. “I will protect him with everything I am. I will die for him, if I have to.”

Gabe sat back, his exhausted demeanor reappearing. “No need to take it that far,” he said quietly, smiling at Derek's dumbstruck look. “But consider yourself thoroughly threatened.”

Derek nodded again and stood on shaky legs.

As he made his way back to the stairs, he heard Gabriel mutter, “Kid better say yes.”

But there was no time to think on the words. There were voices coming from Stiles' room. They were asking questions, wanting to know who had done this. About Karsen.

Derek's blood boiled at the mention of the name, of the way Stiles sounded so small when he talked of the Leviathan's intentions. 

“He's already dead,” he heard himself say, his body nearly shaking with the anger of not having been able to do it himself. Erica was at his side instantly, scenting him and welcoming him home the way wolves did. He looked at Stiles, the teen's wide eyes almost pleading with him. “I took care of it.” The lie felt sour in his mouth, but the relief on Stiles' face was almost worth it. 

“So...what now?” Sam asked, looking at Dean like the man had the universe's answers written on his palm.

“Now,” Castiel said when Dean looked to him instead, a sigh escaping him as his shoulders slumped, “we heal.”

_Heal._

He said the word like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. Derek knew better than that, knew that their wounds would close, sure, but what about the scars? Both physical and mental?

Yet again, Derek had left his family for Stiles, had given up a life that could have made him happier than he'd been in a while. The only difference this time was that he remembered what he'd given up. And the resentment building in the pit of his stomach seemed, unintentionally, aimed at the one person he (still) loved more than life itself.

Derek shared a lingering look with Stiles one more time before leaning into Erica and leading her towards the stairs. They were out the door, greeted in the same way by Isaac and Boyd, and in the awaiting Camaro before anyone (barring Gabriel) noticed they had left.

All Derek wanted was a hot shower and a cool bed.

0 o 0 o 0

_One Week Later_

Cas breathed, and the air around him stirred. For a week, they'd been cooped up in their home with very little outside contact. Dean hadn't yet returned to work, and Stiles, who was finally getting some color back in his face, wouldn't be going back to school for another few days. He'd blown through his make-up work in a matter of a couple days and was becoming restless, despite his friends (sans Derek) coming over to the house constantly.

The angel was still worried, waiting for the other foot to fall on their small family. They were getting better, for the most part. 

And as Cas looked across the dinner table at Stiles, who was pushing the remaining spaghetti on his plate around rather than eating it, he hoped they would continue to have quiet times like these. 

But for now...

“Stiles, why don't you take your plate to the sink and go out for a while.”

The teen sat up straight, eyes sparking with a brightness Castiel hadn't seen for a long while. “Really?”

Beside him, Dean stopped eating, giving the angel a hard look. “Really?” he repeated with less enthusiasm than their son. 

“Your father and I need to discuss some things,” Castiel said evenly, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth with the napkin sitting in his lap. “Why don't you go see Derek?”

Stiles shoulders slumped a little at the suggestion. “Not sure if he'll want to see me, Dad.”

“You should try,” the angel insisted, tone attempting to convey some meaning. 

Stiles swallowed and stood, taking his plate to the sink and rinsing it. He veered back to the table and wrapped his arms tightly around Dean, which was a new habit they both shared. They'd had more father-son time over the last week than they'd had in a long time, and Castiel was grateful for it. 

When the sound of Stiles' keys jingling and the front door slamming closed were little more than an echo in the Winchester home, Dean sighed and dropped his fork onto his plate, crossing his arms. 

“Do you really think letting him go out on his own is smart?”

“He's not on his own,” Castiel corrected, placing his napkin on the table and standing to clear their plates. “Scott is watching him.”

“And what's Scott gonna do if some big bad comes for Stiles?” the hunter asked, standing and leaning against the counter as Cas rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. “He's just a kid. They're _all_ kids.”

“Kids who have willingly been protecting this town for years by themselves,” the angel gently reminded him. “Stiles will be fine.”

“And you think he'll be fine after he goes to see Derek?”

“They'll work it out.”

“Cas...”

Castiel sighed heavily and slammed the dishwasher closed with a little more force than necessary. “Dean. We need to talk.”

Dean went quiet. “What about?”

There was a swift rush of air around them, and suddenly Sam and Gabriel were standing in their dining room.

“About Stiles,” Castiel said grimly, pulling four glasses from a cupboard near the stove and filling them with ice and water. Dean helped him carry them to the table, and the four of them sat, Dean and Cas on one side, Sam and Gabriel on the other. 

“What do you know about Stiles?” Sam asked, fingers grazing the bottom half of his drink. Water ran in small rivulets down the sweating glass, soaking into the tablecloth.

Dean stared at his brother in confusion, looking to Cas with the same expression, only this one mixed with disappointment. “Cas. What is he talking about?”

Castiel steeled himself. This would not be an easy conversation. And he wouldn't be surprised if this ended everything he and Dean had built together. But the truth was festering in his gut. And it was time to drag that rot into the light and let it heal, like they had been trying to do the past week. “Finding Stiles was not an accident. I knew there would be a boy, another one, born into the prophecy Sam was supposed to fulfill.”

“Azazel's prophecy?” Dean asked, shaking his head. “That died when I killed him.”

“And it resurrected itself when Azazel was brought back from Purgatory,” Castiel said, giving his husband a meaningful look. 

Dean's eyes widened, and his breathing quickened. “No. He's not—” 

“He is,” Sam confirmed. “And he has been for a while, according to Crowley.”

“How? Who...” Dean's jaw clenched as realization dawned on him. “Me. He rode me out of Purgatory...I'm the reason our son is in danger.”

“Great sum-up, Dean-O,” Gabriel said, his tone holding less amusement than usual. In fact, it was downright chilly, and Cas could see the slow anger starting to build in his brother. “Why don't you and Cassy try for _Best Parents of the Century_ , huh?”

“Gabe,” Sam chastised with a frown. 

“No, really,” Gabriel argued. “If these two idiots want to have a pity-party about which of them has screwed Stiles over the worst, then by all means, let them. But I'm not gonna sit here and listen to them whine.” He stood from his chair. “Let me know when you want to come home.” And with that, he was gone.

Sam sighed and rubbed at his jaw. “Sorry. He's been a little...irritable.”

“Is it because of what he had to give up?” Castiel asked quietly, but Sam shook his head. 

“No, not that. We talked about it again, and it's just something we've accepted. There's no changing it. It's just a year, and it's so far off, what's there to get worked up about?” The hunter shrugged. There was a sadness there, but no resentment or anger. “He just...keeps looking into Stiles' tattoo, trying to find a way to fix it.”

The group had been more than a little worried when they'd noticed Stiles' protection sigil had disappeared. The teen was basically open season for any demon that happened on him. And Gabriel's attempts to re-ink Stiles were met with a confusing and frustrating failure. They had finally ended up crafting a necklace that Stiles was to wear at all times, day and night. The teen was subject to random checks throughout the day, by Castiel or Gabriel, as well as holy water and iron tests from Dean and Sam. 

Stiles, as any teen would be, was fed up with everything.

“He'll figure it out,” Dean said absently, sitting back in his chair and staring at Castiel with a blank look. “How did you know? About Stiles?”

The angel sighed and clasped his hands together on the table. “When Azazel died, any notion that a second child of the prophecy would be born was dismissed. I...I didn't know, Dean. I swear, I didn't know when we went searching for the creature that killed Stiles' real parents that we would find Stiles...” He hesitated and swallowed hard. “But...When I first saw him, _felt_ his power...I knew he was the one that Azazel had wanted.” 

“Power?” Sam asked, shifting forward in his seat. 

“Dark power,” Castiel said, a cold feeling snaking its way up his spine. “...Demonic.” He still remembers finding a wailing Stiles in his crib, blood spattered on his face and clothes, matted in his thin hair, and feeling...afraid. 

“Stiles has demonic power?” Dean reiterated incredulously.

“No,” Castiel amended, huffing once as he attempted to find the words to explain it. “There was... _potential_ , I guess. Stiles' power is dark and consuming and, yes, has the means to be demonic. But he wasn't raised to use his power that way. If Azazel had gotten his hands on Stiles when he was a baby, he would be a force that none of us could imagine.”

“So what's keeping his power from going dark?” Sam asked, looking as if he already knew the answer. 

“Me,” the angel answered, his shoulders slumping tiredly. “I bound Stiles' powers the night we found him, made it so they couldn't be influenced, by us or anyone else.” His hands tightened around each other, and his throat constricted as his next thought flowed into words. “But he's getting stronger. His power is breaking the bind I have on it.”

Dean gently rested a hand over Castiel's, squeezing reassuringly and making it easier to breathe. “What happens when the bind breaks?” 

Castiel looked up at his husband, fear filling his chest with a dull ache. “He becomes a beacon for every creature out in the world, dark or otherwise. Angels. Demons. They'll all find us. Find _him_.” He swallowed. “And he becomes the very thing we've tried to protect him from.”

Quiet smothered the room, and Castiel felt a coldness settle in the bones of their once happy home.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles' grip on his steering wheel tightened, and he grit his teeth as he stared up at Derek's complex from his idling Jeep. He could just turn around and go to Scott's, stay up all night playing video games and watching B-rated horror flicks and pigging out on all the junk food Dad doesn't let him and Pop keep in the house. Technically, he'd shown up at Derek's, like his Dad had asked him to...

He sighed and cut the engine, stepping out of the Jeep and making his way towards the building with determined aggravation. Hiding from this was just going to make things worse. And Derek deserved more than that. 

The elevator was broken, and Stiles huffed in both annoyance and dread as he eyed the stairwell. Not that he'd lost a whole lot of muscle mass during his extended beauty rest, but he still felt a little weak at the knees climbing just the stairs in his own home. Trekking up three flights was not going to be easy...and it would certainly be an excuse to turn around and leave.

Stiles let his shoulders slump as he moved towards the stairwell, groaning as his calves began to burn halfway up the second flight. 

_Torture._

He exited the stairwell on Derek's floor, breathing heavily but without having broken a sweat, which was something of a victory he supposed. He'd have to start hitting the gym after school on days he didn't have lacrosse. And, damn, he'd have to sit out on practice and games the first couple weeks back. Coach wouldn't be happy about that...Or maybe he would?

The loft door opened before he was halfway down the hall, and Isaac exited, passing him with a smirk while pulling his jacket on. 

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked breathlessly. He didn't mean for the words to sound desperate. But they did. 

And Isaac's smirk softened into a knowing smile. “He's waiting for you in his room.”

“Erica and Boyd?”

“I'm meeting them for a movie night at Scott's. We'll probably stay the night.”

Stiles swallowed and nodded. Isaac got a few feet down the hall before he found the words he'd been meaning to say for a while. “Hey. Uh...thanks. You know, for being there.”

“We're always here for you, man,” Isaac said. 

But Stiles shook his head. “I mean for Derek.” Isaac's smile disappeared. “I know you guys had every reason to hate me for what I did.”

Isaac shifted uncomfortably. “He was in a pretty bad place.”

Stiles' chest tightened. “Yeah.” 

“And even at his worst, he never hated you...And we didn't either.” Stiles huffed and gave him a knowing look. “I mean, there was some resentment.” Stiles crossed his arms. “Yeah, okay. A lot of resentment.”

“It's fine,” Stiles sighed, running a hand over his face. He felt old and drained. That wasn't how a teen was supposed to feel. He was supposed to be worried about school projects and homework and college applications. How was he going to get into Stanford with all the school he'd missed? All the work he needed to make up?

“I don't deserve him,” Stiles said. “Or you guys.”

“You do,” Isaac countered, backing towards the stairs. “And he's still waiting for you.”

And then Isaac was gone, his words echoing in Stiles' ears with more meaning than had probably been intended. 

_Still waiting._

_Still waiting._

_Still fucking waiting._

“God dammit,” he muttered, dragging his feet to the door and grasping the door handle. His knuckles turned white as his fingers continued to clench. 

“Stop being ridiculous,” he chastised himself. “Just...stop.”

He shoved the door open and stared into the loft. A wave of scents hit him—musk and dirty laundry and that floor cleaner that wasn't _supposed_ to have a smell but totally did. It was all so familiar, and yet he hadn't smelled it for so long. His throat closed around the thought, and he made himself swallow painfully around the lump there.

He closed the door and waited, hearing a few creaks from upstairs. But Derek didn't come down, and the pit of Stiles' stomach dropped further. Derek wasn't going to make this easy for either of them—not that Stiles deserved anything easy. 

He sighed and made his way up the winding staircase, forcing himself to keep going as he approached the door of Derek's room. “Derek? Can I come in?”

There was a moment of quiet before Derek spoke, his voice muffled. “Yeah, it's fine.”

Stiles swallowed and opened the door. Derek sat on the edge of his bed, hands fidgeting restlessly. 

“Hey,” Stiles said, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders. 

Derek huffed and stood. “So you're pretending to know me now?” 

Stiles sighed. So this was how he wanted to do this...Fine. “I never said I didn't know you, Derek.”

“But you lied,” the werewolf accused, “to your parents and your uncle. You remember what happened while you were in that coma.” Stiles stayed silent, and for just a second, Derek's features softened. He looked unsure. “Don't you?”

Stiles shuffled to the side slightly and forced himself to keep eye contact with the older man. “I do.”

Derek swallowed. “So you remember what I asked you?”

One corner of the teen's mouth twitched. “I do.”

“...Do you have an answer?”

Stiles dropped his gaze and whispered, “I do.”

“I wish you would stop saying that,” Derek said, voice husky with frustration.

Stiles looked back up, and laughter bubbled up his throat, spilling into the awkward space between them. “I can't,” he said, tears flooding his eyes in what he was hoping was happiness but may have also been desperation and joy and incredulity and pain and a million and one other glorious things he couldn't begin to fathom. “And I won't. Ever.”

Derek's eyebrows furrowed. “You won't...?”

Stiles blinked, and the tears fell. “I won't stop saying it because that's my answer.” Derek's face went blank, his eyes wide and searching for the truth in the words. But Stiles had never been more truthful about anything in his entire life. “Derek, _I do_. I'll marry you.”

Derek was, suddenly, across the room, arms wrapped so tightly around him that he was afraid he would never breathe again. But if that was what it would be like for the rest of their lives, Stiles would bear that feeling a thousand fold. He loved this man. 

He _loved_ this man. 

“I love you,” he choked out just before Derek captured his lips in the first kiss they'd shared in several months. It was at the same time the most wonderful sensation and also completely unsatisfying. As they pulled apart, Stiles moaned, leaning his forehead against the other man's. “Derek...the bond.”

“I know,” Derek said, his tone pained and his roaming hands desperate.

Stiles fisted the fabric at the werewolf's shoulders and panted hotly into Derek's mouth. “Fix it,” he demanded, meeting the man's dark, lust-filled eyes with as intense a gaze as he could muster. His thoughts were on fire, his head buzzing and pounding and screaming for all the things he wanted done to him. “Fix. It. Now.”

Each word felt like sandpaper against the back of his throat. 

Derek growled low, grabbing the teen's thighs and hitching Stiles' legs up and around his waist. “Don't you dare think we're done talking about this,” he threatened, spinning them both and walking towards the bed. 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Stiles said breathlessly, laughing as Derek dropped him onto the mattress and tore his tight t-shirt over his head. Stiles wasted no time, reaching forward and fumbling with the man's belt, button, and zipper. 

He offered a toothy grin as his hands delved into the back of Derek's jeans, grabbing his ass and squeezing. Derek laughed and placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder to steady himself as the teen spread his legs and pulled the older man forward. 

“Take it easy, Stiles. We have time.”

“You don't know that,” Stiles blurted suddenly, the words leaving his tongue before he could stop them. 

Derek's easy smile disappeared, his grip on the teen's shoulder loosening. “What?”

Stiles swallowed and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Derek's naked abdomen. “I just mean...We almost didn't make it out of this one.”

He sighed and slid his hands to Derek's sides, holding tight in case this was all a dream—an illusion cooked up by his coma-adled brain. “You could have died in Purgatory. Or Karsen could have let me die. Everything that keeps happening seems like it's cutting it closer and closer.” He opened his eyes and leaned back enough to see Derek frowning down at him. “One of these times it's gonna be too close, and we're not gonna be able to fix it.”

Derek pressed his lips into a grim line and looked up over Stiles' head. “Is that why you said yes?”

Stiles was on his feet in an instant, hands finding the sides of Derek's face and forcing the man to look at him. “Hey. Hey! Absolutely not. Derek Prescott Hale, listen to me.” He grabbed one of Derek's hands and placed it over his heart, holding it there. “ _Listen_.” Derek stayed quiet and held his determined gaze. “I have wanted to marry you since the moment I met you.”

The older man rolled his eyes. “You hated me when you first met me.”

“...True,” Stiles admitted. “But that was only consciously.” Derek huffed. “ _Sub_ -consciously I definitely wanted to marry you. And bang you.” The werewolf smirked and shook his head. “Derek, I said yes because I know we should be together. And, yeah, maybe I'm a little scared about how long that will be...” Stiles took a steadying breath. “...but I know I want to be with you. Forever. This life, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, I don't care. If I'm with you, I'll take whatever comes. Because, Derek Hale, I love you, and if I ever make you doubt that again, you have my permission to beat the crap out of me.”

Stiles leaned forward, ready to continue what they'd started. But Derek took a stuttered breath and turned his head before their lips could meet. 

“Stiles....”

The teen's stomach plummeted. “You wanna have that talk now, don't you?”

Derek set his large, warm hands on Stiles' shoulders. “Why did you lie to your dads?”

Stiles pursed his lips. “I don't know. I just had this feeling that if I told them what was really happening, they'd...” Stiles suddenly felt nervous, and Derek's confused look changed to one of worry. 

“Stiles, do you think your dads would try to hurt you?”

“No,” the teen said automatically, but his next words clawed their way out of him without his permission. “Not if they didn't have to.”

Derek swallowed. “But if they had to?”

Tears loosed from Stiles' eyes as his hidden fears revealed themselves. “Yes. They'd kill me.”

“I don't believe that.” Derek shook his head. “You're their son.”

“But I'm not,” the teen said with a shrug. “I'm not their son. They don't even know what I'm capable of. They could kill me without batting an eye. It's what they do. They kill monsters, Derek. I'm a—” 

“No,” Derek interrupted firmly. “Don't you dare. You aren't. And you never will be.”

Stiles knew Derek's intentions were noble. But his mind wouldn't be changed. He needed a distraction. 

“Then fix me,” Stiles said, voice wavering. “Make me believe it. Make me yours, Derek. Please.”

Derek looked stricken. “Stiles—” 

“No more talking,” the teen pleaded. “Just...fix this. Fix _us_.” 

He dropped to the bed again, fingers finding Derek's waistband as he continued to keep eye contact. 

“Let me,” he begged, waiting until Derek closed his eyes and nodded before tugging the older man's pants down his thighs. His cock was limp, but as Stiles breathed hotly on it, there was a twitch of interest. Stiles wrapped his hand around the warm shaft and gave it a few dry pumps, feeling Derek's grip on his shoulders tighten. The werewolf's breath hitched, and his cock began to stiffen in Stiles' hold. 

“Come on, baby,” Stiles whispered, leaning forward and wrapping his lips around the tip. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked lightly, tongue swirling the head and sliding along the slit. Derek cried out, and Stiles felt the small points of claws start to poke into his shirt. 

He delved in further, taking more of Derek into his mouth and sucking harder. When he was halfway down the older man's cock, he pulled back, moving his hand up from the base to collect some of his saliva and start a rhythmic pumping motion. 

“Shit,” Derek swore, his hips bucking into Stiles hold. “Fuck, Stiles.”

The teen smiled and buried his face in Derek's groin, nipping at the skin and inhaling deeply. He knew that drove Derek insane, brought out his rougher side. 

As if on cue, the older man growled low and strung his fingers through the teen's hair. It was getting too long. He'd have to get it cut soon...maybe. He was sort of liking the amount of tugging going on. And speaking of tugging...

Stiles reluctantly unburied himself—he really did love Derek's scent—and brought his attention back to the matter at hand _(Ha! Matter at hand. Stiles' double entendre was on fire tonight...even if it was only in his head)_. Precum was beading in the slit of Derek's cock, and the teen leaned in to lick it away. Derek keened and jerked forward, clock sliding into Stiles' mouth nearly all the way. 

“S-Sorry,” Derek stuttered, but Stiles had already relaxed his throat, was taking Derek in further and further until he felt coarse hair tickle his nose. He hummed, and Derek grunted. 

“Stiles, I...I think I'm gonna—” He tried to shove Stiles off of him, but the teen grabbed at Derek's hips and pumped him with his mouth several more times before Derek released a guttural noise and came down the teen's throat.

Stiles swallowed as much as he could, but cum still leaked from the corners of his mouth as he sucked Derek down from his orgasm. 

“Jesus Christ,” Derek murmured as Stiles pulled off of him and wiped his mouth. 

“ 'Stiles' is fine,” the teen said with a messy grin. 

Derek chuckled and stepped back, stumbling slightly in his half-down jeans. “You know that doesn't count as mating.”

Stiles' grin widened, and he looked up at the older man through his lashes. “Wasn't really banking on that.” He spread his legs wide and waggled his eyebrows. Derek gave him an exasperated look but shoved his pants down the rest of the way, stepping out of them and sauntering towards the younger man in a way that made his own jeans tight.

“Damn,” he said hoarsely as Derek dropped to his knees at the end of the bed and placed his large hands on Stiles' thighs, slowly sliding his way towards the teen's waistband. “I missed this.”

Derek hummed his agreement, leaning down and placing a kiss on the inside of his jean-clad leg. “Me too.”

“I missed _you_ ,” Stiles said, breath hitching as one of Derek's hands began to rub at his crotch with a teasing amount of pressure and the other snapped the button of his pants and tugged at his zipper. 

“Derek,” Stiles gasped the name. “I want...Shit! I...I want...”

Derek moved up along Stiles' body until their chests were flush against each other, reaching up under the teen's shirt and splaying a hand over the warm skin there. “Tell me what you want, Stiles,” Derek breathed against his neck. “I'll give you anything.” 

Stiles huffed a laugh and craned his neck as Derek began sucking on the skin there. “I want you...to open me up and...let me ride you.”

Derek groaned and bit down on the teen's shoulder. “Gonna have to get you naked before we can do any of that.”

A shiver ran through Stiles' entire body. “Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.”

Derek's claws were out, and Stiles barely had a chance to mourn yet another favorite shirt before the loft's chilly air was hitting his bare skin. 

“Why do you keep it so cold in here?” Stiles asked, scooting up the bed while grabbing at the short hairs on the back of Derek's head and pulling him along as well. 

Derek came willingly, helping the young man shuck his jeans and underwear as a smile broke wide over his face. “So I can keep you warm,” he said. 

Stiles rolled his eyes but pulled the man down on top of him into a deep kiss, wrapping his legs around him. He rutted up against the man as Derek reached blindly into his nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. Stiles eyed it suspiciously and snatched it out of the older man's hand. 

“This looks emptier than it did the last time we used it.”

Derek shrugged. “Maybe Isaac borrowed it.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Isaac uses scented lube—please don't ask how I know that.”

Derek's eyebrows furrowed like he certainly _did_ want to ask how Stiles knew that, but he refrained. “Erica and Boyd?”

“No dice,” Stiles said. He'd offered a half-used bottle once when Erica had asked for a spare one, but she'd very adamantly refused, saying she didn't want to be thinking about _them_ while she was with Boyd. Which made no sense to Stiles, but werewolves were weird, so whatever. 

Derek sighed, head lowering so his face was pressed to Stiles' chest, though the rolling of his hips didn't stop. “I got...lonely.”

“Yeah, I know what that's like,” Stiles sighed, fingers of his free hand burrowing further into Derek's hair. 

Derek suddenly lifted his head and looked at him almost accusingly. “Do you?” he asked, his words holding a bite. His eyes flashed, and Stiles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from showing any fear. He wasn't afraid—not entirely. He trusted Derek, knew he had control, even if his anger bled through just a little. 

“You left me,” Derek said, his voice breaking on the words. His fangs elongated.

Stiles nodded, swallowing hard and letting the backs of his fingers gently brush the stubble on the older man's cheek. “I did.”

“You let that... _thing_ influence you, tell you we didn't belong together.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want an apology.” Derek's clawed fingers scraped down Stiles' side, causing no marks but leaving a sting in their wake. He leaned forward into Stiles' face, breathing hard and hot. “I want to know you're mine.”

Stiles nodded, fingers ghosting along Derek's stubbled jaw to the back of his head and threading into the small hairs there again. “I am.”

“Marry me,” Derek said, his fangs and claws receding. 

“I already said yes,” Stiles reminded him, but the werewolf shook his head. 

“But I didn't ask you here, for real.” Derek pressed their foreheads together. “Stiles,” he breathed, the words barely there between their lips, “will you marry me?”

Stiles smiled _oh-so-wide_ and laughed, kissing Derek hard. “Yes! Oh my God, yes! How many yes's do you need before you believe me?” 

Derek smiled, too, and it was more relieved than any he'd given so far. “I love you.”

“Come here,” Stiles said, gently tugging and rolling them until Derek was situated on the bed beneath him and he was straddling the man's hips. Derek reached for the lube that was still in Stiles' hand, but the teen shook his head. “I changed my mind. I just want you to watch.”

Derek nodded, and Stiles popped the cap of the lube, squirting a generous amount on his hand and reaching behind himself. He gasped when the first of his fingers breached the tight ring of muscle, resisting the urge to close his eyes. Derek's gaze was on him, hungry and dark and _wantwantwant_. He didn't want to miss any part of that.

“You...watching?” Stiles panted, smirking when Derek's head jerked in a nod.

“Definitely.” 

Stiles sat back just slightly, his hand grazing Derek's renewed interest. “Good.” He rolled his hips and pushed his finger in deeper, groaning at the feeling and wanting— “M-More.” Derek reached around him, squeezing his ass and spreading him wider. Stiles' mouth fell slack, and he slid another finger into himself, crying out when Derek grabbed his hand and shoved hard. 

“Sorry,” Derek said, though he didn't quite look it.

The teen smirked. “That doesn't feel like just watching.”

“You're the one that asked for more.” 

With a laugh, Stiles rolled his hips again. “You gonna deliver, then?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” 

“Ye—Ah!” Before Stiles could say yes, Derek had pushed a finger inside of him alongside Stiles' own. “Fuck, when did you put lube on your finger?”

“You're very distractable.”

Stiles huffed, his retort lost on his tongue as Derek surged up to capture his lips. He grabbed at the man's shoulder as Derek's finger moved inside him, stretching and going deeper. 

“Do you want another?” Derek asked him, smiling as Stiles considered it. 

“Next time,” he decided. “Right now, I just want _you_.” 

Derek nodded and kissed him again, extracting his finger and grabbing the lube in a fumbled haste. As he slicked himself, Stiles removed his own fingers, wincing at the empty, cold feeling. 

“Ready?” Derek asked, and Stiles nodded, wiping his slick fingers on the sheets beside them. 

“You go back to watching,” Stiles insisted, pushing the man back down on the bed and raising his hips. He wrapped his fingers around Derek's fully-hard cock and positioned the tip at his entrance, sharing a look with Derek and kissing him hard as he seated himself fully. 

He and Derek groaned together, Stiles pressing his palms to Derek's chest to steady himself. The burn was immense and blinding and beautiful all at once. Stiles nearly cried out at the pain but managed to hold the noise in, biting his bottom lip and breathing deep.

“Fuck,” the older man said, head thrown back and claws ripping into the bed sheets as Stiles clenched his muscles around his cock. “Stiles...I don't know how long I can just...watch.” He shuddered and swallowed, looking up at the teen with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I really, _really_ wanna fuck you.”

Stiles straightened up with a toothy smile, leaning back and resting his hands on Derek's thighs. “Be a good boy and I'll let you finish that way.” He raised himself up and pushed down again roughly, hissing at the sensation as Derek moaned and grabbed at the younger man's hips. Stiles snatched at his hands before Derek could take control, tsk-ing and shaking his head. “Look but don't touch.” 

He took Derek's hands and moved them up to the headboard, making the older man grip it tightly before he sat back again and raised himself slowly. 

“Stiles,” Derek ground out. The headboard cracked under his grip, and Stiles laughed, moving down again just as slowly. “I'll take over if you don't move faster.”

“I just want to take my time with you,” Stiles admitted, letting something slip into his voice he hadn't intended. 

Derek didn't seem to notice. “We have time,” he insisted. “But we haven't fucked in months, and if I have to wait any longer, I think my dick is going to have an aneurism.” 

Stiles snorted. “I don't think that's medically possible.”

“It is,” Derek said, moaning again at the aggravatingly slow pace Stiles had set. “Trust me. It is.”

“I want this to last.”

“It can't last forever.”

“Sure it can,” Stiles said conversationally. The muscles in his arms were starting to burn from holding himself at that angle, but he kept his pace slow. “It's called tantric sex.”

Derek shook his head and groaned. “It sounds horrifying.”

The teen tried to laugh, but it came out rough and desperate. Derek opened his eyes and blinked a few times to orient himself. 

“Stiles?”

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded, shaking his head and willing the man to shut up. “Just let this be real.” Derek tried to sit up, but Stiles leaned forward, pressing him back against the mattress. “Just for a while longer, let me think this is real.”

Derek's eyes widened, and he grabbed Stiles' hips, stopping his now frantic thrusting. “Stiles, stop!” He sat up, holding the younger man against his chest. “Look at me.”

Stiles couldn't. 

“What isn't real?” Derek asked, shaking him when he didn't answer. “ _What isn't real?_ ”

Stiles suddenly felt afraid. If he admitted it wasn't real, would it disappear? Would Derek and his illusion of a life together be gone? Would Karsen be waiting for him in that dark prison? Or worse...Azazel?

“Stiles!” Derek said loudly, and Stiles realized his breathing was short and labored, his head swimming in a dense fog. “Breathe, Stiles! Just breathe with me. It's okay. You're okay.”

Stiles closed his eyes. He was cold, his body trembling uncontrollably. He rested his forehead against Derek's shoulder and dug his fingernails into the werewolf's biceps. 

_Hold on. Hold on. Hold on._

“Hey,” Derek said, hands wrapped around him but not squeezing, not forcing. Just...there. 

“Tell me this is real,” Stiles whispered, and Derek went absolutely still. “Tell me this is real, Derek. Please tell me this is real.”

“Why wouldn't it be real?” he asked, and the teen shook his head. 

“I don't want you to disappear.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Stiles, tell me why you think this isn't real.”

Stiles grit his teeth. “Karsen. He made you disappear. I thought it was you, but it wasn't.” His breath hitched, and he wrapped his arms around Derek's shoulders, memorizing the shape of them just in case. “I closed my eyes for a second and then you were gone and it was just him. I can't...I won't make it if this is just another trick.”

Derek was quiet for a long moment, letting Stiles breathe himself back into a calmer state. His heart was hurtling against his ribcage, but the pain was good. Pain was something real. “Stiles, please look at me.”

Stiles hesitated but lifted his head from the man's shoulder, slowly letting his eyes travel up the familiar stubbled face. It was Derek.

“This is real,” Derek promised, green eyes wide and earnest. 

The teen nodded. He knew, deep down, that this wasn't just a trick. It felt different than when Karsen had trapped him in that place. This was Derek. This was where he belonged. This was real. “Show me,” he said, breath stuttering as he rolled his hips.

Derek's eyes went dark again, and he only waited a moment before flipping them so that Stiles lay underneath him. His hot, ragged breath ghosted over the teen's face, his gaze searching, needing to know this was what Stiles really wanted. 

“Derek, I need you,” Stiles whispered, arching under the man and closing his eyes. “I need you to get rid of him.” He heard Derek growl, felt the press of bared teeth against his throat. “I can still feel him.” His voice was small, broken. “Please, Derek...Please.”

It was all the incentive that Derek needed. Stiles felt the first snap of the werewolf's hips shatter Karsen's invisible hold on him. The second stirred a warmth in his chest he thought he'd never feel again. And every frantic thrust after claimed Stiles' body, made sure that no one would ever touch him again.

Derek pulled out, suddenly, and Stiles' eyes flew open, seeing the dark red tint just around the man's irises. The older man was still in control, but this was what Stiles had come to know as _claiming mode_. He flipped Stiles onto his stomach, and the teen barely had enough time to grab hold of the headboard before Derek was pounding into him again. 

“Fuck!” he yelled, the angle opening up a whole new wave of pleasure. He moaned out with every thrust of Derek's hips, biting into the pillow beneath him when he felt a hot warmth coil in the pit of his belly. Derek grunted with every snap of his hips, each thrust harder than the last. His grip on Stiles' hips was near bruising. Stiles tried to grab hold of his own straining cock, but the older man quickly snatched his wrist, holding it tightly behind his back as he continued. 

Stiles groaned. “Not fair,” he said. 

“Gonna make you come,” Derek said, voice husky and deep and _jesusfuckingchrist_ rough. “Just by fucking you, Stiles. Gonna make you see stars.”

Stiles clenched his eyes closed. He was already starting to see something. Bright and hot and white behind his eyelids. “Derek,” he said, breathing in raggedly and moaning on the exhale as Derek's knees spread his legs open wider, as his hips stuttered in their rhythm. “Fuck, Derek. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

He started chanting the word and Derek's name like a mantra until suddenly his stomach clenched, his balls tightened, and he was spurting all over the bedsheets beneath him. The light behind his eyes surrounded him in warmth and satiated pleasure. He barely registered Derek finishing a few strokes later, burying himself in Stiles with a shout. 

Stiles felt...not completely healed. But better. Something in his chest expanded, allowed him to breath more deeply.

He was whole again. Mostly.

Why did something still feel...off?

Derek sagged over him, breathing hotly into the back of his neck for a minute before carefully pulling out of Stiles and sinking to the bed. He pulled the teen with him, pressing his warm chest to Stiles' sweat-laced back and wrapping strong arms around him. “Are you okay?” he asked absently. 

Stiles breathed. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, definitely.”

Derek ran a hand along Stiles' jaw, turning his head until he could see him. The older man's eyes were still dark and lust-blown, but they were attentive, searching. “You sure?”

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his forehead against Derek's. He settled on, “I'm better than I was,” before pressing a kiss to Derek's lips and turning back around. The werewolf pulled the comforter around them both and strung fingers through the teen's hair soothingly.

Long after Derek's breathing deepened, Stiles lay awake. The emptiness in his chest that he'd thought was gone was growing again, pulling him in like a black hole. He brought his hands up, clung to Derek's arms and shivered, trying his best to hold on. 

_Just hold on._

But a voice at the back of his head, one that sounded frighteningly like Azazel, whispered, _Let go. Let go. Let go..._

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles sat at the breakfast bar of the loft in a pair of borrowed boxers and one of Derek's t-shirts, staring down at his left hand with wide, unseeing eyes. He'd woken up with a ring on his finger. It was beautiful. Nothing too gaudy or flashy. Just a thin, silver band with a triskelion engraved into it. Derek had been watching him as he discovered it, a hopeful, bated look on his face. Stiles had done his best not to disappoint by showing his enthusiasm. 

Very. Appreciative. Enthusiasm.

The feeling of their bond had warmed him again, as it had last night, but as Derek had left him to go shower—Stiles foregoing the offer of joining him in lieu of needing coffee—that cold, empty feeling had slowly started trickling back into his veins. Was something wrong? Was the bond not strong enough to take hold? Were Stiles and Derek just not suited to be mates anymore? 

Stiles sighed and set his head on the counter beside the now luke-warm mug. 

_Agony._

The door to the loft opened, and Erica's brash voice echoed throughout the space. “God! It stinks in here! How many times did they fuck?”

“Not really our business,” Boyd monotoned. “Maybe we should come back.”

“I'll meet you guys downstairs. Gimme a minute,” Isaac said, footsteps sounding on the steps and the floorboards. 

“Tell them to open some windows,” Erica called before the loft door closed. 

The kitchen door opened and Isaac took the seat to Stiles' right. “Stiles? Everything okay?”

Stiles lifted his head and sighed. “Yeah, it's fine.”

“Are you feeling all right? Where's Derek?” Isaac looked around the kitchen as if Derek might be hiding on the floor somewhere, ready to pounce up and make them breakfast. 

“He's in the shower.” Stiles ran his left hand through his hair, and Isaac caught his wrist, pulling it down to stare at the ring. 

“He asked you?” the werewolf said excitedly. It wasn't surprising that he knew about the ring. Isaac was easy to talk to. Derek had probably shown it to him the moment he picked it out. Hell, Stiles wouldn't be surprised if Isaac was the one who picked it out _for_ him. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his tone not quite as animated as it should be. “Last night.” Technically while he was in a coma, but he hadn't really answered him before he woke up, so Stiles wasn't sure if that counted or not. 

Isaac waited a beat before raising an eyebrow. “So...I mean, you obviously said yes.”

“I did,” Stiles confirmed. 

“You don't seem very Stiles-like about it.” 

Stiles snorted at the notion of his name being used as an adjective. “I'm just tired. It was a long night. A long week, really.”

Isaac released his hand. “I guess so.”

Stiles glanced towards the door to the kitchen and back down to the counter. For some reason he just couldn't look the other teen in the eye. “I don't know. Something just feels...off.” Stiles sighed and rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. “I mean, we definitely re-established the bond...I guess.”

“Okay,” Isaac said, the apples of his cheeks turning pink. “You _guess_?”

Stiles squirmed on his seat. “It feels weird. Wrong.” He rubbed at his chest, the cold feeling still there—though less prominent than the night before. “Not like it did the first time.”

“Why don't you tell him?” Isaac said with a shrug. Simple. To the point.

“I don't want to ruin this,” Stiles admitted quietly. “I put him through so much shit the last few months. I don't want him to think he had this again and then rip it all away.”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“Duh,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. 

“Then stop being an idiot and _communicate_.” Isaac demanded before standing from his seat. “Hey,” he said as he reached the kitchen door, “do you mind if I tell the others? About Derek popping the question?”

“Go for it,” Stiles said, one corner of his lips quirking. “Just, you know, don't tell my dads.”

Isaac huffed. “Obviously.” He smiled, wide and happy. “I'm really excited for you, Stiles.” 

Stiles smiled as wide as his stone lips would allow. “Thanks, man.”

Isaac left, and Stiles let the smile drop from his face, building the courage to stand and head back up to Derek's room. It took a long few minutes (that felt like hours, dear Lord), but he was finally at Derek's bedroom door, pushing it open. Derek was coming out of the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips and water dripping everywhere as he used another towel to dry his hair. 

Damn.

Like _hot_ damn.

“Hey,” Derek said with an easy smile. 

“I can't do this,” Stiles blurted, his heart stuttering as he let the words fall off his tongue. 

Derek's smile vanished, and he looked suddenly very vulnerable. “Can't do what?”

Stiles swallowed, his mouth feeling full of sand. “Pretend like I'm okay.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Because I'm not. I'm so, so not, Derek.”

Derek nodded but didn't move. “You changed your mind,” he said solemnly.

“Changed my...?” Stiles watched the other man's gaze fall to his left hand—the ring. Derek thought Stiles was changing his mind about the proposal. “Oh. Shit. No! No, no, no! That's not what I meant!” Stiles held his hands up. “My answer's still yes. _Definitely_ still yes.”

Derek's shoulders slumped. “Okay, then...what's wrong?”

Stiles opened his mouth, but the words froze in his throat as a sudden chill ran through him. “I...” He rubbed at his chest and swallowed hard. “The bond...I don't think it...”

Derek raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“It just hurts,” Stiles finally said, feeling some of the pain lessen with the admission. “I want it to stop, and I want to feel like yours again. I want...I want _you_.”

The werewolf sighed and held out his hands. “Come here.” Stiles did, and Derek wrapped him in a warm, albeit somewhat damp, hug. “Stiles, our old bond is broken. We can't _fix_ it. It doesn't work like that.”

“But—” 

“But,” Derek interrupted, “we can build on this new one, make it stronger.” He took Stiles' arms and pushed him back a step so that they could look each other in the eye. “A new bond doesn't make the pain go away. The old one will need time to heal.”

Stiles felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. That wasn't fair. He wanted their old bond, not some new one. What they'd had before...They couldn't remake that? How did Derek even know they'd feel the same way with this new bond?

“Stiles, stop.” 

Oh. He'd been thinking out loud again.

“Sorry.” 

Derek shook his head. “Don't be sorry. This isn't our fault. Karsen did this to us.” Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the mention of the Leviathan. “But if we let what he did come between us, then he really did win.” 

Stiles nodded, and the older man took a deep breath, releasing it in a shuddering gust and letting slip a look of uncertainty for just a moment. The teen took his hand, squeezing and smiling as best he could. 

“We can do this,” he said, the ice inside him warming just a bit when Derek smiled back.

“Yeah. We can.” 

Derek tugged him into a kiss, and Stiles reveled in the feeling. 

_Real_ , he thought to himself. _So, so real._

“So what you're saying,” he murmured as they broke apart, “is lots of sex.”

The werewolf laughed and shoved him down onto the bed. “It couldn't hurt.”

“What if I want it to?” Stiles asked with a lecherous grin.

Derek growled and let the towel around his hips drop to the floor. “If that's what you want.”

Stiles licked his bottom lip and nodded, eyeing his _fiance_ (and fuck if that wasn't completely and utterly satisfying to think) up and down. “That's what I want,” he said breathlessly, closing his eyes as the older man forced his legs apart. “If it's with you, that's definitely what I want.”

Their fingers tangled, their mouths met, and their tongues collided. Warmth spread through Stiles like a wave, and he smiled against Derek's lips. 

On the nightstand, his phone buzzed angrily, an ignored text from Scott screeching, _“u and derek r WAT?!?”_ Stiles wouldn't bother with it for another hour or so. Because right then, things were pretty—

_Perfect._

_Perfect._

_Fucking perfect._

0 o 0 o 0

“His power is greater than we expected.” The man who stood before Azazel shook with nerves. He was once Karsen's right hand man, had expected to die along with the Leviathan. Yet here he was, in the presence of the demon who was destined to rule the world. 

“Yes,” Azazel agreed, a grin splitting his face as he stared out the window of the loft that sat a mere two floors above the one where a certain prophesied boy was moaning into his betrothed's bedsheets. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“He'll be ready soon, you think?”

The yellow-eyed demon pursed his lips as he thought. “Perhaps,” he mused. “His destiny would come along a little smoother if his parents would stop interfering.”

The man swallowed hard and took a shallow breath. “You would like me to take care of them, my lord?”

“No.” Azazel shook his head, tracing patterns into the fog on the window pane with long, slender fingers. “When the time comes...Stiles will take care of them for me.” 

The patterns on the window faded, and the demon blew warm air on them to bring them back to life. He would bring the _world_ back to life. Stiles would be the warmth that spread over the fading, shriveled earth. He would be hope and faith and liberation to those who had suffered far too long.

Azazel would bring about the end of all things.

And Stiles would breathe life into a new wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, this part is finally DONE!!! It totally didn't turn out the way I thought it would. I re-wrote it so many times, I can't even remember what my original plan for it was, but I am so very happy with how it turned out!!! And I am really excited that you guys have taken this extraordinary journey with me!!
> 
> For those of you who are worried that I'd forgotten to tell you what Talia said to Derek, I didn't. I promise! It's just not gonna pop up in this part. Maybe the next...which I am SUPER EXCITED ABOUT, by the by!! I already have the first few chapters written (which is why it took me so long to get these last few chapters out...I was busy simultaneously writing the next part because PLOT BUNNIES ARE AWFUL CREATURES THAT SPRING UP OUT OF NOWHERE). So, hopefully things transgress a little faster with the next part.
> 
> If you guys have any questions about anything, please don't hesitate to ask!! I know there are a lot of open-ended things in this chapter, but I promise you, things will knit together as nicely as I can knit them by the end of this series!! And if you've found any plot holes (of which I'm sure there are several), feel free to point them out!! My updates are so far between, that sometimes I forget some of the information/plot that I've already written and just glaze over it with nonsense...Silly me.
> 
> Thank you all, again, for being so patient and sticking with me and just being generally AMAZING!!! I love you all so much, and I hope to catch you in the fourth part of this series: 
> 
> DON'T TELL MY DADS I'M ENGAGED TO A WEREWOLF!!!!! (Much excites!! Many happinesses!! Such anticipations!! Wow!!)


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